


Your life knows no answer

by aleclestrade (meddowstaylor)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Halloween 13, But can he fight his own self doubt plus the inexplicable things that keep happening?, First Time Together, Fleetwood Mac References, I say 'cursed' but he has his life basically fixed, M/M, Magic, Making Out, Mycroft gets cursed into being in a relationship with Greg, Mycroft is an oblivious self sabotaging idiot in a lot of this, Paia's plot bunny, Witches, a little bit of angst and a little bit of fluff I give with two hands, background Johnlock, doting uncle Mycroft, the witch also helps with Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship I couldn't help myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27120695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meddowstaylor/pseuds/aleclestrade
Summary: “Detective Inspector, huh?” He laughed and Mycroft decided to write the effect that low chuckle had on him as yet another bizarre glitch in the day. “Didn’t know we were playing at that today, love”Mycroft has a rare encounter with a mysterious woman on the street, without knowing she is a witch. She asks one simple question: “Who loves you, Mycroft Holmes?”. His world shifts, and suddenly he is in a relationship with Greg Lestrade, he gets along well with his brother and begins to see how others care for him. He needs to navigate this magical reality while trying to make sense of it all and struggling with the belief that he is losing his mind. But once he realises he has everything his heart could ever desire, will he still want to find a way to break the spell?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 67
Kudos: 119
Collections: A Halloween 13 2020, JustMystradeThoughts Plot Bunny Adoptions





	1. Will you ever win?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ludicrous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludicrous/gifts).



> This story is based on one of Paia’s amazing plot bunnies and comes to you after the cheerleading of Ludicrous from the very first moment and all the support from Vulpes who also organised the incredible Halloween13.
> 
> It’s giving me the chance to combine witches, Mystrade and even Fleetwood Mac lyrics references- what else can I ask for?

“Who loves you?”

Mycroft stopped dead on his track. The voice kept intruding in his mind, maybe a torrid reminder of memories he wanted to leave behind. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t have time for this. He had manners but he also couldn’t slow down to bother himself with an eccentric blonde woman sitting on the sidewalk. As it happened, he had found himself without his usual arrangement of PA and driver’s company. He was stranded five blocks away from Whitehall and bounded to make his way on foot, with exactly two minutes to spare before a tedious meeting with the MOD Chief Scientific Adviser. Rummaging in his pockets couldn’t be a priority right now - he wondered when he had last carried loose change; maybe never, or perhaps not since he was 18 and walking Sherlock to get ice cream on their summer holidays.

“Who loves you, Mycroft Holmes?” she insisted. The woman didn’t look particularly disheveled, so Mycroft wondered what she wanted from him. 

“How do you know my name?” Being late be damned. This had turned into a matter of security. 

“May it all shift until you find out and care to look around.” She offered a sly yet non-threatening smirk. 

Mycroft felt the need to get as quickly away from the cryptic woman with the eerie smile as possible. As he was turning around, a solid body collided with his chest. Was this what people that walked around everywhere had to deal with? Strangers approaching them with creepy omens and men crashing into them?

Then, recognition hit. Not just any solid body. Not just any man. 

“Oh, Detective Inspector, hello.” Lestrade was looking the same as always, his usual trench coat slightly damp from the morning dew, indicating he had been out since far earlier than Mycroft. His hair was spiked both from the humidity and the habit Mycroft had picked on - Lestrade used to run his hands tirelessly over it when he was frustrated. The look suited him.

“I’m sorry, this has been the most unusual morning, I didn’t see you there,” he apologised. Was Lestrade on his way to the Met headquarters? He scanned him again, careful to conceal the staring - always a challenge when he was around the Detective Inspector, especially if he was caught off guard by their meeting. Lestrade had his mobile in hand - a sign he was expecting a phone call -, badge poking through his front pocket - undoubtedly from having to show it around shortly before-, and an overall look of exasperation already. 

He was on duty, then. Maybe the reason Mycroft’s car couldn’t move forward was a crime scene after all. 

Mycroft was ready to make his excuses and move past him to keep going when Lestrade pulled a weird expression. A smile, certainly, but one that carried an air of something Mycroft couldn’t put his finger on. 

“Detective Inspector, huh?” He laughed and Mycroft decided to write the effect that low chuckle had on him as yet another bizarre glitch in the day. “Didn’t know we were playing at that today, love.”

Mycroft was sure he couldn’t hide his puzzling look. His mind supplied the date he had last had a physical check, audiometry exam included. Surely if his body wasn’t betraying him, then it had to be his brain. That wasn’t reassuring. Maybe the few times he had indulged in letting thoughts wander towards the figure of the Detective Inspector were making him imagine things. He was stressed and had let his guard down for a moment, that was probably it. Though hallucinating conversations was an unwelcomed development. 

Lestrade must have taken the silence as a sign of quiet acceptance of his remark (and the endearment term, which was branded into Mycroft’s memory now), for he gifted him with another smile, a bit more hurried now. 

“I better go back there before Sally decides to keep tearing a new one on the poor transit officer who found the body and didn’t call us, but I might make it home before you tonight, so I’ll handle dinner.”

And just like that he was gone, leaving Mycroft staring ahead to an empty street. By instinct, he turned around to where the lady had been. Empty on that end as well.

——- 

The afternoon went on without another significant setback, annoying politicians excepted. Uncooperative people did not surprise Mycroft anymore - quite frankly, very little still did. But he was scattered, his mind unable to focus when he was alone in his office. He felt like he had fabricated the whole situation, the unmentionable thing he did not dare think about, convinced as he was that wishful hoping had gotten the best of him. 

His intercom buzzed, and he let out a thankful sigh. Putting his mind to work was the best solution to wandering thoughts. 

“It’s your brother, Mr. Holmes,” Anthea’s clear voice announced. 

Well, so much for putting his mind at ease. 

“Put him through, Anthea. Thank you.” His index finger was already tracing a line alongside his temple, feeling the stress collect there. 

“Hello. I’m sorry to bother you in the middle of the day.” Mycroft’s apprehension accelerated. Sherlock calling his office was never a good sign. The fact that he was apologising for it meant what he was going to ask for was on the dreadful side. 

“I wanted to thank you again for sorting out that awful incident at Rosie’s school.” Few things left Mycroft Holmes speechless. His brother thanking him twice in less than a minute certainly was one of them. “Also, John asked me to confirm you two were still coming over on Friday”. There was the familiar air of annoyance in that last sentence, but Mycroft was still having trouble concentrating on what was being said. It was like learning a new language, so he’d have to focus a bit harder. 

“Uhh, yes, of course.” His response caught him off guard. He had no idea who ”you two” was alluding to or what he was exactly agreeing to, but he realised with a faint sad feeling that he wanted to keep Sherlock on the phone a bit more. Perhaps an old habit of trying to make sure he would stay on the line until Mycroft arrived where he was- or maybe he only wanted to extend this rare occurrence of his brother and him getting along. He’d try to remember it when undoubtedly Sherlock went back to his senses and snapped at him again. 

“Excellent. I told John there was no need to check with you again, but he insisted.” There was the exasperation once more, only it was directed at Dr. Watson and not Mycroft himself. That was more unsettling than Mycroft had expected.

The line went silent and Mycroft realised he was clutching the phone with a force that was numbing his fingers. He still wanted to keep his brother talking, try to figure out if he was making a laughing stock out of him or if he was under any influence. 

“Anything in particular I- we have to bring?” The Royal We. It sounded so strange on Mycroft’s lips. The only “we” he was used to mentioning involved the great United Kingdom. 

“That raspberry cake Lestrade’s so fond of, the one you brought over last time will work just fine. I’m blaming you, of course, for giving Rosie a sweet tooth.” Mycroft was so focused bracing himself for the inevitable pointed comment Sherlock might make about his weight, that he almost missed the Detective Inspector’s name. By now he was sure his knuckles were as white as the rest of his face, completed devoid of color. 

“Well, I must go now, brother.” Sherlock had taken his silence as a tacit form of agreement, just like Lestrade had done that morning. The truth was that Mycroft was fearing he was caught in a bizarre different dimension and was lost for words.

“Yes, so do I,” Mycroft answered. “We’ll speak soon,” he added tentatively. 

“I’m sure we will.”

Mycroft looked at his hands, wiping them away with his handkerchief. A cloud of gleaming dust covered them, shining with glitter-like speckles. His phone seemed to be glistening as well, so he’d have to ask the people in charge of cleaning to be more thorough. There was a protocol to follow if he came in contact with any suspicious substance, and he knew he should be more concerned. It seemed like his mind could only handle one pressing matter at the moment. His eyes were set on the phone, not for its apparent ability to self-produce shimmer, but because somehow that was more plausible than his brother calling that way. 

He turned to his trustworthy appointment book, never having fully relied on technological devices as the sole way to keep his daily records. He was “old school” like that. That phrase emerged in his mind as if he had heard it before, spoken by someone else. He couldn’t figure out who, but it sounded like friendly mocking, not the callous remarks his brother would make at his expense. He looked for clues there that might shed light on this whole obscure situation. All the days before the current one were blank, as if they had never existed. Mycroft was sure he would have written down something like talking with Rosamund’s school, having dinner with Sherlock, or… eating cake with Lestrade. But it was empty as if his life had restarted that day.

If he couldn’t count on his appointment book for evidence and his mind was scarily failing him, then there was someone who would have the answers for sure. 

“Anthea, can you please come in here?”

Almost as soon as he had lifted his finger from the intercom, his PA walked in. Mycroft glanced at her, realising he was searching for signs something was amiss with her as well. It would have been more comforting thinking it wasn’t only him that was experiencing these changes. 

“Everything alright, Sir?” she asked. It was her customary way of searching for confirmation things were okay with his brother after Mycroft talked with him. He appreciated it, noticing now that it was her way of inquiring if he was okay. The light coming from the window must have reflected through the glasses, for Anthea seemed to glow with a purple hue around her. Mycroft grabbed the glasses he rarely wore around other people, sure his eyesight was failing him now. He tried to focus on the chance he had to get some more information. 

“Yes, my brother wanted to thank me, if you can possibly believe it, for interfering on the matter of Rosamund’s school.” He was going on a limb here, but he felt Anthea had probably a lot to do with whatever they had arranged. She smiled, proving him right. 

“He also wanted to confirm that we were going over his apartment on Friday.” His voice dropped a little, trying to maintain a level of lightheartedness to the tone but failing. He needed to appear more nonchalant if he expected Anthea to give him answers but not suspect he had sustained immense brain damage in the last 24 hours. Something Mycroft wasn’t quite sure hadn’t happened.

She stared expectantly, as if waiting for him to clarify something. It seemed like Anthea wasn’t in charge of arranging his personal visits to his brother’s home then. 

He tried again. “He was very adamant we brought over cake”. That was probably the most ludicrous phrase he had urged in that office, and some infuriating conversations had gone down there with the PM’s people. 

“The raspberry one? I can make a note of calling the bakery Detective Lestrade’s likes so much, Sir.” She smiled, but there was a puzzling look on her face, like she was explaining a simple task to a child. Mycroft grew more worried by the minute, and a bit annoyed and ashamed as well.

So that confirmed once more that he was expected to show up to Baker Street with the Detective Inspector. Maybe out of convenience when both of them were invited he offered Lestrade a lift. His mind brought up their earlier interaction, and the beaming smile on his face when he had called Mycroft… - _No_. This was an anomaly, probably a short term memory loss due to stress or a big prank that Sherlock was pulling on him (though how he had gotten Anthea to collaborate was suspicious). That needed to be taken care of first, and the exchange with Lestrade to be forever forgotten. 

\----

The day moved forward without much change, although Mycroft was monitoring his every reaction and thought. He had to sort out an issue with the Belgian Infrastructure Minister and his mind went on autopilot, grateful to still be able to rely on his intellect at least for work. Drafting memos and looking over files were some of the most tedious tasks his position required, but today he welcomed the monotony. 

When the clock announced it was already six he realised not much was left to be done for the day lest he set to work on non-urgent matters. For some reason, the idea of going back to his house filled him with uncertainty and dread. His mind, always a step ahead, told him that it was because for the first time there was the possibility that someone might be waiting for him there. He was used to pondering if agents or even killers could be lurking behind the gated house, but this was new. And somehow, much more terrifying.

He grabbed his coat, trying not to get ahead. There was still a high chance he was going back to the same big, lonely house. No change, no shift in the universe. That would be welcomed. The logical way of events, how everything ought to be and remain. What was he deluding himself into believing to be true? That his mind could conjure a reality where he was in some sort of … _liaison_ … with Detective Inspector Lestrade? The afternoon had been a slip, an indulgent moment when his thoughts had crafted a “what if” scenario. The same type of dream that he hadn’t allowed himself to think about since meeting the older man. Of course back then having such thoughts was unadvised because Lestrade was married and he had just met Sherlock and exercised some good influence in his life. And because after letting himself think about it, Mycroft was always miserable. Even if Lestrade was unattached, would consider a relationship with a man, or wasn’t linked at all to his brother’s life, there was absolutely no way the fantasies in Mycroft’s mind could be fulfilled.

The fact that the ache in his chest was reemerging was a clear sign even thinking about it now would lead to sadness and disappointment, as most indulgences often did. Lestrade’s words kept repeating over and over in his mind: “I might make it home before you either way”. Home. The distress was replaced by a lulling comforting sensation. The house would be the same, only someone else would be there. Many people had informed Mycroft that something like that differentiated a place you bathe, ate, and slept in from a place you lived in.

 _“I might make it home before you either way”. “Didn’t know we were playing at that today, love”_. He could hear the deep voice say both phrases in such a soft, affectionate way. He couldn’t make it stop but Mycroft didn’t fault his mind too much since he was not really trying hard enough to keep the memory away. So much for forgetting that event. 

——-

Of course, he could have asked Anthea again. Or his driver. He was sure he could disguise his questions as a security concern, or put all those years of knowing how to get information out of people to personal use. But since the moment he had closed the door of his office to this very instant, standing in front of the gate of his house, he had urged his mind to cooperate and think of some logical explanation to the situation. Maybe Lestrade had been preoccupied when they had run into each other that morning. He surely had mistaken Mycroft for a different person. Anthea might have misunderstood his question, and he hadn’t been specific, so there was a rational possibility there. Sherlock could just have been Sherlock, trying to rile him up and make him believe he was losing his senses. Maybe he even knew about Mycroft’s attraction to the Detective Inspector. He guessed if that was the case, Sherlock using that information to pull a joke on him would be the least damaging outcome. There had to be a sensible cause for the weird talk everyone had engaged in, and Mycroft was going to find it. It was either that or admitting his intelligence, his only prized trait, was going down the drain. 

All the logical details were swiped away the moment he entered the code to his door and in the driveway he saw a grey car with a distinct plate number. Mycroft had memorised it for security reasons a long, long while ago - and even if the original NSY unmarked vehicle had changed a few times in eleven years, he still always made a note of remembering the new identification. It would have been impossible to miss it anywhere, but here, meters away from the garden of his house, it was an omen. A good or a bad one, it remained to be seen.


	2. Dreams unwind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments and kudos, I’m so excited you are on board with this story! I forgot to mention it, but thank you to Gala for her amazing outlining tips that are saving my sanity as I write - and to Jae for her words of encouragement <3

Mycroft had a strict protocol regarding what to do when there was a strange car anywhere he was at. Given that no alerts had gone off on his phone, no alarms had started blaring nor had several agents come rushing to his gate, it was fair to suppose Lestrade’s presence at his house was not a rare occurrence, or at least it was expected. 

So there was no reason to stall, for as much as he had the urge to turn around and get on a plane, citing an international emergency. It wouldn’t be unheard of. Yet the day had been a strange one, and what he most wanted was to get into his bed and for it all to be over. He entered the house, going over the steps he usually took. He hung his coat on the rack and noticed there was another one, not his. It wasn’t there when he had opened the door, he was certain. He placed his briefcase and umbrella on the stairs and, as his eyes surely betrayed him, they moved to the lay by the closet door. Exhaustion was without a doubt impairing his senses. After a regular long day he would shed the layers of clothing until he was only in shirt sleeves and waistcoat, but tonight it felt as if he needed to keep the protection his suit granted. He looked in the mirror by the foyer, trying to spot any differences in his appearance or any indicators that something was amiss. He kept an eye on his items, but no new sudden movement happened. 

“Mycroft, is that you?” he heard from the kitchen. Then, as the voice was approaching, mumbling mostly to itself: “of course it’s you, but this house still gives me the creeps sometimes. Thanks to your uncle for its weird hallways, I guess-“ and there, in front of him was Gregory Lestrade, still wearing his dress shirt but in tracksuit pants. He should have stood out against the more traditional decor and antique furniture (yes, thank you Uncle Rudy), but the shocking truth was that he didn’t. It wasn’t as if he blended in either because Mycroft had found that was impossible for Lestrade to accomplish. Whether the Detective Inspector was aware or not, Mycroft viewed him as a remarkable man who was easy to spot anywhere.

After a moment Mycroft realised he most certainly looked like a crazy person that refused to make his way into his home. 

“Yes, it’s me.” _Oh, remarkable._ His brain was really at its best today. 

“Well, don’t just stand there.” Lestrade made a move to go back from where he had appeared. He seemed to reconsider, noticing that Mycroft was frozen in place and didn’t move. “Hey,” he said, more softly this time, searching him. He moved forward, and Mycroft leaned back. Confusion was clear on Greg’s face, and Mycroft’s brain suddenly caught up. If there really was something going on between them, Mycroft’s odd behavior would raise all kinds of alarms. What did people do when they got home to someone else? Hug them? Have a drink and commiserate with each other talking about their day on the sofa? Oh, for God’s sake, kiss? 

“Myc, are you okay?” Greg did not take another step but Mycroft gathered he should make quick amends to ease the Detective’s worry. At least until he could put his thoughts in order and figure out what was happening. 

“Yes, uhh, awful migraine.” He wanted to use that excuse to retrieve to his room, but Greg’s honest look of concern made him reconsider. 

“I’m sorry, love.” Greg ran his hands through Mycroft’s arms and he was grateful he had decided to keep his suit on. The touch nearly scorched him as it was, and his mind was racing from hearing Lestrade call him that. Again. Mycroft did follow him into the kitchen then, mostly to avoid being pulled into a hug. 

Once there, he was hit by the distinctive smell of tomato sauce. The room looked different, airier. Perhaps it was the fact that Greg had opened the window Mycroft rarely even bothered to draw the curtains on, and now there was a chilly breeze coming from the garden. Mycroft looked around but couldn’t focus on the details he knew his brain should have been picking up on. He could swear the layout of the cups and appliances was rearranging as he looked at them, but Lestrade was going about the cooking without noticing this. Suddenly all he could focus on was Greg, his presence there, his voice, the faint smell of his cologne, and the occasional worrying looks he still furtively cast towards Mycroft. 

“You sure you don’t want to go lay down? You already seemed distracted this morning.” All right, so Mycroft hadn’t imagined their earlier interaction then. Could it be that Greg had somehow learned about Mycroft’s attraction to him and was playing off that? 

_No_ , Mycroft decided. Gregory Lestrade could never be that cruel, no matter how upside-down the world seemed right now. 

“In a minute. I’d hate to let your cooking go to waste.” He surprised himself with that answer, knowing he had just been offered an out and had passed on it. The words dropped from his lips without much thought, as if he was bounded to do so. 

He trailed behind Greg as he moved through the kitchen, but the man didn’t seem to mind. Nor did he make Mycroft speak a lot, apparently sparing him and his headache. After setting two plates on the island and pouring out the water from a pasta pot Mycroft was sure he didn’t own, Greg kept on telling him about his day. He complained about the paperwork he was going to be buried under from the case they had opened near Whitehall that morning, the additional pile of evidence his team had to sort through because Dimmock’s people had messed up again, even about how the nearby deli had run out of his favorite sarnie and how that had him sulking all afternoon. It made for pleasant company and Mycroft willed his brain to remember his basic training for undercover situations. It resembled improvisation guidelines fairly closely, so all he had to do was “yes, and…” whenever Greg made a pause and avoid giving up how little he knew about his position.

He wondered if people knew about them, whatever their situation was. Anthea hadn’t looked puzzled when he had instructed her to arrange for the cake order and even Sherlock had alluded to something, although it was anybody’s guess what his brother registered from other people’s lives. 

Thankfully dinner had gone by rather smoothly, resembling the easy conversations they shared whenever they would meet to discuss Sherlock or any matters related to work. Often in those situations he had a strong grip of reality and what was being said, careful not to let his mind focus on Lestrade’s habit of tearing up little pieces of paper or pay notice to his hands as he scratched at his stubble. Years and years of Mycroft telling himself not to focus on those endearing details and shut down a lot of his reactions meant that he had to quickly learn now how to appear present and relaxed around the Detective Inspector. He was sure he was failing miserably. 

“Mycroft, you really are zoned out today. Maybe it’s time to call it a night?” Greg didn’t sound annoyed, but a bit overly concerned. Perhaps he was just looking for excuses to end their dinner. 

“Yes, it truly is getting late. I’m sure you have an early start tomorrow and you have to be on your way,” Mycroft offered. He had made it almost through the whole ordeal. 

Greg was looking at him like he had sustained some kind of injury, and to be honest, Mycroft was still not sure that wasn’t the case. 

“On… on my way upstairs you mean?” 

Scrambling for an answer, Mycroft’s brain seemed to have finally decided to cooperate. He glanced over at the charger by the coffee machine, not compatible with his own mobile. He remembered not noticing any type of bag in the hallway, so the joggers Greg was wearing must have been already there. He knew exactly how he liked to organise the wine cellar by the dishwashing machine, and not only were the bottles out of order, but there were some new brands as well. That and - what had Lestrade said that morning and even texted today? 

_Home._  
Oh, God. Gregory Lestrade lived there. 

Mycroft made a failed attempt at pointing at the aspirin bottle by his glass and offered a noncommittal “I think I just need to sleep this off”. He didn’t wait to hear Greg’s response, certain he was going to mess things up even more if he let the conversation drag. He locked himself in his study, though, realising that his bedtime routine could be delayed for a while to avoid the Detective Inspector. He would let Lestrade get ready for bed. Mycroft guessed he could make an excuse the next morning about falling asleep in the guest bedroom but there was no way to do that without making Greg think he had done something wrong or raising suspicions. 

Mycroft checked the security cameras footage from that day - maybe Lestrade was being held hostage and was waiting for Mycroft to catch up on it. What if he wasn’t even the actual Detective Inspector, but some elaborate scheme someone had set up to trick him? He had seen some advanced stuff on the field, so nothing was to be ruled out. Once he had started wondering about overly realistic face masks and voice changing software, he reckoned it really was time to rest and give his mind a break. He couldn’t phantom the other possibility, the only explanation left. Perhaps he had honestly lost his mind and was descending into hallucinations. With any luck by the morning he would wake up from whatever effect he was put under and everything would be back to normal.

He crossed the hallway that led to his bedroom and although it was dark, some light from the en-suite bathroom filtered through. There, touched by the faint glow, laid Greg in his bed, his back turned from the door. Mycroft tried not to stare and moved past him and into the bathroom, extending the time of his shower to make sure if he was going to share a bed with Lestrade, at least he wouldn’t have to navigate pillow talk. Or worse, a kiss goodnight. 

On not many occasions Mycroft had allowed himself to picture Lestrade sleeping by his side just like now, or simply being there in his space, around him. He tried to avoid those kind of fantasies, but occasionally he failed. Sometimes, after a shared drink in his club or a late-night meeting by a crime scene, Mycroft couldn’t shake off the thoughts and sensations that being near Greg arose. They stuck with him and he carried them to his house, to his room, to his bed. He made a point of spacing out their encounters more after those moments of weakness, but eventually he couldn’t fight it off too much. He told himself indulging his mind was harmless and didn’t mean anything really, since they were only fantasies, a way for his brain to release the pressure it was constantly put under. 

Now there he was, the real man Mycroft often dreamt about, but it wasn’t that different from a fabrication. Something was off and he couldn’t let his hopes make him forget it wasn’t true. He was terrified of making a sound getting into bed and waking Lestrade up. Once under the covers, he closed his eyes and placed his body as farther away from Greg as he could, gripping the sheets around him.

Glancing over he saw that Lestrade wasn’t relaxed either, and Mycroft hated himself for undoubtedly causing him distress, as he was sure Greg had been hurt from his cold and distant behavior. That was customary for Mycroft, but judging by Lestrade’s concerned looks, he didn’t usually act that way around Greg anymore.

Mycroft felt Lestrade turn, slowly moving towards him. His chest was very close to Mycroft’s back, but maybe sensing how tense he was Greg didn’t move more or dared touch him. Mycroft tried to even out his breathing, grateful Greg had stayed still. 

“Something is bothering you.” Mycroft had miscalculated. Lestrade was much closer than he had estimated. He kept his eyes closed, which heightened the feeling of Greg’s breath on his neck. “You can always tell me. Take some of the weight off your shoulders. I know I might not get everything that you have to deal with, but I’m a good listener.” Hearing the tenderness in Greg’s voice and how he played off his importance almost made Mycroft want to turn around, but he was bounded to endure this torture. 

Greg shifted. “I meant what I said all the way back, about wanting to be there for you. You said yes and …” Mycroft had survived long nights in foreign cells less painful than this, but Greg carried on with his plea, making this even more difficult. “Well, I don’t want you shutting off again, or thinking that I’m backing out.”

Mycroft waited, clenching his jaw from the tension until he felt Lestrade’s breathing even out again. He was tired, but his mind kept replaying the day over and over - and the fact that his mind was racing didn’t stop his body from taking notice of Greg sleeping next to him. Mycroft knew if he was to fall asleep he would only dream of Greg’s words and the almost anguish to them. He was so used to spending his days among those who articulated each sentence carefully and cynically to not show much sentiment, people that didn’t doubt a second about using any form of humanity as leverage. The openness in which Greg had spoken had affected him immensely. As soon as he had spoken, a little part of this askew reality had made sense. Either that or Mycroft was more exhausted than he realised. 

He remembered those lines. He had tried very hard to forget the turmoil after what he still counted as one of the most difficult nights of his life, followed by some of the darkest months afterward. That day Lestrade had indeed offered his help, and Mycroft was so shaken he had accepted and let him take him to his house, where they had drunk their whiskeys in silence, Greg watching him in concern. Although he had kept checking on Mycroft the following weeks, he had declined any offers of company, convinced as he was that enough people had gotten involved in a mess that wasn’t their burden, and that the Detective Inspector was probably following along with it because of his friendship with Sherlock. He had done more than enough. 

As the months had progressed Lestrade had stopped asking and had seemed to be following Mycroft’s lead in pretending that night after Sherrinford hadn’t happened. Mycroft had slowly sought after Greg, but only on a professional level.

With a grunt Lestrade moved closer, the soft snoring not bothering Mycroft in the least. He threw a hand over his middle, but it ended up at some point below Mycroft’s ribs. He had forgotten how it felt to have somebody next to him while he was sleeping, someone to stay the whole night, to spend it there in his house with him. Falling straight into the traps of self-fulfilling prophecy, Mycroft’s headache got worse and he felt slightly sick. Greg’s hand clumsily fumbled under the covers and came to rest on his waist. The numbing dullness in his head was still there, but with the grounding feeling of Greg hugging him, Mycroft fell slowly asleep.

——

He awoke as the early morning sun filled the dark room. A glance at his clock on the nightstand told him he still had some minutes to spare before he had to get up and start the day. He closed his eyes again, feeling as if he was coming off anesthesia. He could take notice of the surroundings, but he felt his limbs heavy with the dull after effect of having taken painkillers. He rarely took them for that reason, hating to have his mind impaired even for a few moments in the morning. 

The mattress shifted and his brain caught up quickly. It hadn’t been a dream, or his hallucinations were worse than he had suspected. It was still going on. He felt dumb for acting so stubborn, but he refused to open his eyes and face it. 

Then Lestrade stirred and tightened the hold he currently had on Mycroft’s pyjama, and Mycroft instinctively looked to his side. Who knew when he was going to get another chance to wake up next to Gregory Lestrade - never, if he was being at least somehow logical. It wasn’t happening now either, this was not real. And yet it was impossible not to look at Greg’s relaxed expression, the way one side of his face was half-hidden beneath the sheets, feel the warmth of his body, and think he was anything but there. Present, alive, his. 

Mycroft knew he should have been taking advantage of that time to look around the room and perhaps the house, check drawers and the closet, figure out how many clothes Lestrade had there, if he kept a bag or he had fully settled in, if he had stocked the fridge with food and drinks he might enjoy, as Mycroft suspected from the beer he had seen him drink the night before.

Instead, he was as comfortable as he had ever been in his bed and his body refused to get up. He reasoned moving would wake Greg up and thus cut his thinking time short, but searching for details that might clue him in to what was happening didn’t seem like a priority now. It was not yet 6:30 am and he could at leisure try to memorise every one of that beautiful man’s features. The more Lestrade seemed to cling to him, the more Mycroft’s senses clouded and he began to believe this could all be happening. 

He must have fallen back asleep because the next time he opened his eyes the first thing he noticed was the missing weight around him and the fact that the clock now struck quarter past 7.

“I can’t recall the last time you overslept, but I couldn’t seem to wake you up, no matter what I did.” Greg was standing by the bathroom door, already changed into his suit but with his hair freshly washed and still a little damp. Mycroft could smell the shampoo, strong and intense by the proximity, the same scent he only got to faintly whiff as he would approach the Detective Inspector during one of their meetings. “As if you were under a hex or some’ting.” 

Mycroft felt himself blush, and he didn’t know if it was because of the recollection of those memories, from staring at Lestrade and finding out he looked even more dashing in the morning, or because he couldn’t quite decipher if there was a hidden, mischievous meaning behind Greg’s words. 

“It’s late,” Mycroft heard his own croaked sleepy voice. 

“I’ll get started on breakfast, then,” Greg smiled. The man couldn’t be more gorgeous if he tried, Mycroft thought. He blamed it on his still half-awake body and mind that when Greg leaned forward and kissed him quickly, Mycroft couldn’t register what was happening until it was over. Mere seconds, probably fractions of it, and Greg was through the bedroom door, unaware that he had turned Mycroft’s word on its axis - a word that had already been shaken so badly. 

Once he locked himself in the bathroom it was easier to go about his morning routine trying not to think about the previous events. Mycroft was great at compartmentalizing, he had been doing it all his life. He wouldn’t be able to function as he was supposed to if he couldn’t switch down some levers and set his mind to work. The one problem was that now he had to navigate all of this while shaving in a room that smelled like Lestrade’s perfume, getting dressed in a closet that had other shirts hanging next to his, and walk down the stairs to the smell of toast and eggs. The files in his mind where he carefully organized every part of his routine were in chaos. 

And as he was greeted in the kitchen with a steaming cup of tea just the way he liked it, he almost didn’t care.

Mycroft found out Greg was not much of a talker in the mornings. He was certainly not moody and had a grin on his face whenever Mycroft looked up from the paper, but he scrolled through his phone in silence while taking his coffee, and it made for a peaceful and comforting time together. Mycroft didn’t have to rush to come up with conversation topics that would help hide his lapse in memory, so he let his mind wander a little. 

An indulgence, he repeated. A dangerous path to tread, he reminded himself. 

He wondered if that was how his mornings would go if he didn’t lock away the feelings he knew he had for the Detective Inspector. He had classified them as attraction and even lust a long while ago. He knew it would be naive to refuse to see there was more to it than that. There were good reasons why he had never owned up to them, though. At first, he had believed that getting involved with Lestrade would put a damper on the trust they had built, and that helped him with keeping an eye on Sherlock. Muddling things up with the only willing aide he had was inadvisable, to say the least. As time had progressed and he had gotten to know the man behind the badge, Mycroft feared if Greg was ever to know how he felt, he would put an end to their acquaintance. After he had offered his assistance multiple times and gave up on his free time to have a drink with Mycroft here and there, Mycroft was terrified of losing that friendship. He didn’t know if Lestrade saw it like that, but he was one of the few people Mycroft could trust, and most of all, rely on. Steadily, Greg had established his position as an important figure in his life. 

So Mycroft had been back to the base of his principles - feelings, after all, did get in the way. 

Now that he had peeked behind the curtain or the frontal lobe of his brain was malfunctioning so spectacularly, he got to see what he could have had. And he was certain beyond doubt that not getting involved with Lestrade was the wisest choice he had ever made. Greg had remained calm the night before while dealing with a very off Mycroft, and let him have his space this morning- and he was even more stunning up close. Very, very up close. Yes, now Mycroft saw that to have that and to lose it, like he inevitably would, could only break his heart and bring so much despair to his life. 

Heartbreak. He had once lectured Sherlock about it. His brother had navigated it fairly well. Actually, no -Holmeses were not equipped to deal with heartbreak. But Sherlock had been brave enough to expose himself to the possibility of having his heart broken in the first place despite it. Maybe it wasn’t even a choice - and had it not worked out in his favor in the end?

“ ‘kay love, gotta run.” Mycroft had only managed to put his tea down as he felt Greg’s hand on his neck, pulling him forward and slightly up as he was bending down. Just like when he had woken up, the kiss started before Mycroft realised what was happening, but Lestrade lingered a little more this time, enough for Mycroft to feel the softness of his lips and taste the coffee there. Greg gave him a smile and for the first time he seemed less worried and the affection reached his eyes. His fingers traced the skin above Mycroft’s shirt collar a couple of times before he leaned back and said goodbye again.

Mycroft’s briefcase and umbrella were not where he had last seen them the night before, but he barely registered it, as he kept idly reaching for his neck until he got to his car. He felt Greg’s touch there all morning.

——

At the office, he was able to figure out that the culprit of a month-long leaking to the press was a Minister determined to trade favors in exchange for clearing his own allegations, and he successfully navigated some nonsense talk about fiscal policy with the Chancellor’s people that highlighted their ineptitude. At least his worries about his mind failing were somehow put at ease. The Parliamentary Secretary had to manage a transport crisis on his own - about time he solved something without going crying to him, Mycroft thought. Still, he had the nerve to direct his frustrations at him: “I would have briefed you earlier, but I’m aware you are not to be disturbed when you spend time at home”. He said that like it was a delirious notion, and Mycroft knew for a lot of the people that worked with him that constituted weakness. None of them had someone worth going home to, he reasoned. Not so long ago neither had he. While he was glad he didn’t have to deal with the Secretary’s incompetence outside of the office, the remark stuck with Mycroft. Anthea later informed him that the young man had been trapped inside one of the conference rooms for the rest of the day, and no-one could get him out or explain how the lock had malfunctioned. 

Anthea had looked at him in a strange way all day, but she had always been oddly perceptive. That was one of the traits that had made her excellent for the job. Feeling like he was hiding, Mycroft told her he was expecting an important call and to not be bothered. 

“Whose call, Sir?” she asked. Her face had remained neutral, keeping the air of disinterest she was a master at. But Mycroft knew how to see behind it, and two could play that game. 

“You’ll know when they call.” He had taken great interest in adjusting his cufflinks as he said that. Anthea might be good at it, but he would always be the best. 

He had a few hours to try to piece together the events that stood out to him - almost none of it made sense. He reckoned he might have to dig in a little farther back to find an explanation, if not to what happened, then at least to what his life had become. Being one step ahead was what had always given him power and the upper-hand, and now he was several steps behind everyone else.

The records of his security detail let him know that Lestrade had full access to the codes and protocols to enter and exit his house and office. Mycroft took a glance at the active cases he was working on and none of them seemed serious enough for the Detective Inspector to need a cover or special location placing. He had certainly looked very relaxed for a man under some sort of protection program. 

Mycroft fetched a key from his pocket. He was never a man to have pictures or sentimental tokens on his desk, but he kept some personal items in a drawer. He carefully opened the lock and rummaged through what was there. He found the old photograph of Sherlock and him, two summers before Mycroft went to Cambridge. He had kept it there forever and had recently added a framed one from his niece’s birthday. Only now, the picture shifting before his eyes, there was also Greg sitting next to him, little Rosamund between them, smiling brightly to the camera. He remembered the day, how Lestrade had gotten her a book about names and John had chuckled while Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft had talked to Lestrade briefly over tea but kept his distance most of the afternoon as he watched Dr. Watson’s new nurse fruitlessly try to flirt with him. He turned around the frame a few times, inspecting it for any hidden device, but finding nothing odd. Well, a self appearing photograph was delirious enough.

The drawer was not as neat as he remembered keeping it. There were also pictures Rosie had painted for him - and apparently of him, a colorful figure using his umbrella to defend her against kids at school. He found stub tickets from movies and the opera, and plenty of paper coasters from bars and hotels. There was also a newer picture of Sherlock and him, smiling over a game of bridge. It was a candid photograph and they looked like someone had snapped it without them noticing, probably Dr. Watson. Or Lestrade. It was remarkable how easily his mind had supplied that possibility, how quickly he was growing accustomed to the presence of Greg in his life. 

He kept looking for something among the papers and photographs, studying them twice as dates got rearranged or place’s names suddenly rewritten. He analyzed all the possible symptoms of many illnesses, but he reckoned seeing pictures and text vanish and objects move around were hallucinations beyond even a complex mind like his own. Then there was Gregory, but he didn’t seem like such an eerie omen of Mycroft’s brain’s decline. Although believing his briefcase and umbrella had taken to switch positions on their own was more feasible than the possibility of Lestrade being interested in him. 

Even if he found an imaginative way of asking Anthea what was happening, she was too sharp and would tell in an instant that something was wrong with him. What was he going to explain? That he was living someone else’s life and unable to break free from it? That he was most afraid of his desire to willingly submit to the craziness of it all than to give it up?

Her voice came through the intercom. “I have a package for you. Was that the important call you were expecting, Sir?” There was a lightly teasing tone in her voice, and Mycroft’s curiosity was alerted. 

She came in, carrying a bottle of whiskey, and Mycroft recognised the brand immediately. It was the one he kept at home in his personal study, as well as there in his office. Anthea placed it on the desk but she did not gloat in satisfaction at being proven right. She looked fond.

Mycroft took the card that was with the bottle. “Just because we’re together doesn’t mean I will stop restocking your shelves and owning up to the whiskey we drink, even if it burns a hole in my pocket. Old habits die hard. Love, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft blushed reading it, picking up on the flirting based on him calling Greg by his rank the day before.

Anthea was great at reading upside-down with only a glance -another valuable asset- and she sighed and laughed. “How did you land a man like that?”, a hint of sweetness to her usually more stern voice. 

“Yes, how did I?” Mycroft repeated almost to himself. 

“Well, for some reason you decided for once to let someone in. I know he has his methods of persuasion, but I’m also giving you credit for finally cracking”. 

Mycroft looked at the card in his hands. Could it really be so easy? Could he take credit for that? He looked up and saw Anthea’s cheerful smile slowly fade.

“Mycroft, is everything okay?” she frowned. “You’ve been preoccupied since you got here yesterday”. He didn’t know how to answer that, because it was the same thing he had been asking himself. He didn’t know if everything was fine or terribly wrong when, quite frankly, it felt like all was going perfectly. But how could he say that he was trying and trying to find an explanation and all the answers lead him to results that defied logic and common sense- and that then, as he would be wrecking his mind with effort, another inexplicable thing would take place. Like right that moment, as he stared at Anthea, glowing with a sort of purple halo around her. 

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t,” she declared, unaware of the light she was emitting. “You deserve everything good that is happening in your life.” Mycroft had forgotten another one of her amazing traits was the ability to anticipate what others might think. She walked away, the light dimming as she left him alone.

Mycroft reasoned the best he could do was wait for things to clear up on its own or to face the inevitable demise of his senses. For experiment’s sake, he would go along with the current state of his life until next Friday. He would hate to let down his niece. 

He thought back to the photos in the drawer, now safety locked away again. Of the memories he kept there but he couldn’t recall. Of the people that somehow cared for him. He decided that if he really was in a relationship with Greg, then it was high time he showed his appreciation. 

He called Anthea once more, asking if by chance she could call that bakery and order a cake for tonight, the same kind they were supposed to bring over to Sherlock’s. See what the fuss was about it. 

Mycroft scrolled back through his mostly empty text messages, the chain between him and Lestrade only including their interactions from the previous day. He didn’t know what their usual rapport was or how they talked to each other privately, but he took a deep breath and let his mind - hopefully, still functional- guide him through it with a little help from his instincts. It had been a while since he had relied on those, but stranger things were happening around there. Like his mobile shedding some sort of glitter dust now. 

“I’m cooking tonight. Expect me home early. - M”  
“And thank you for the whiskey. Looking forward to enjoying it with you. - M”

He left the phone face down, swiping the shiny dust off his desk. He couldn’t deal with trying to comprehend that now. Less than a minute after hitting send he grabbed it and stared at it until the screen lit up. 

“I should have known that some flirting and good Scotch was the way to your heart, as usual. Looking forward to it, handsome.” Mycroft heard more than felt the breath he had been holding exhale and finished the last tasks in the office. The anticipation he was feeling oddly resembled the kind before a first date. 

_“Dinner with Gregory”_ showed up in his appointment book suddenly, scribbled in neat handwriting.


	3. When the sky is starless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said "a little bit of fluff, a little bit of angst - I give with two hands"? Yeah, my hands got involved in this one.

Once home, Mycroft noticed how some rooms seemed to shine differently. He hadn’t picked up on it the day before, but the house had always felt a little bit impersonal to him, prioritizing the practical aspects of living in a place that had basically been constructed as a fortress, it’s main point to keep everyone out and the members of the family that lived in there, safe. Ironic to think of it that way, since no Holmes to have lived in the place were known to have a proper family of their own. A few people commented on it seeming like a haunted house, but Mycroft never noticed anything extraordinary. Maybe he had become really good at filtering out all sorts of ghosts. Moving in seemed like a reasonable step as soon as his uncle had passed away, and taking over the residence was expected of him. Now that there was light in a lot of rooms, it only contrasted with how dark it usually was. Mycroft wondered if he would notice the gloominess when he went back. 

In the files he kept in his study he found the logs of every security matter related to the house. His uncle had used to keep note of everyone that came and went, but being a far less social person, carrying on with that tradition only to jolt down the occasional formal dinner he had to host or a visit from his assistant had seemed pointless to Mycroft. He had left authorizations and the vetting process to a firm, and so with a click he could access when Lestrade had moved in. Around 6 months ago. Could it be possible that in whatever reality they were in, Greg would have tolerated him for half a year? More, if Mycroft was truly reasoning, because it meant they had been dating for quite some time. He didn’t see himself moving in with someone too quickly into a relationship- if he was being honest, he didn’t see himself moving in with someone at all. He had grown accustomed to his lonely routine, favoring calmness and privacy over opening up. 

If he had to move in with someone, Lestrade seemed like an appealing candidate. The time they had spent together over the years had been most insightful, revealing certain aspects of his personality, marveling Mycroft both with his drive and his compassion. The traits he found most endearing about him would be the sort of characteristics he would deem as weakness in others, or in himself. Greg was a great leader but he didn’t think twice before putting himself on the line for his people. He was jaded from being in contact with the worst kind of criminals in London, but still, he always chose to see the best in who he met. He had gotten involved in situations that brought additional trouble or even harmed his reputation as an officer, but never thought twice to lend a hand to those who needed him. As Mycroft went over the many events that had made the two of them cross paths over the years, he realised his family was among the ones to jeopardize his position. Not only Sherlock, who Lestrade probably had the most patience for out of anyone in the world -perhaps excepting Mycroft himself-, but Mycroft as well. He knew Greg had to fight his peers and subordinates whenever he intervened and even took cases from them. 

Restrain had made Mycroft keep track of the times he invited the Detective Inspector over for a drink at the club to discuss an important matter, and balance it out by sending Anthea to deal with him after that. He never wanted to step over a line, make Lestrade uncomfortable, or take advantage of his kindness by presuming he wanted to spend time together. Most of all, cowardly, Mycroft didn’t want to lose the little contact they had. 

His mind wandered as he went around the pantry gathering ingredients for his recipe, and he thought back to the times when Greg had urged him to stick around and get coffee after tiresome nights going over records. Greg, who would keep making conversation once whatever Sherlock issue they had to manage was taken care of. Greg, who valued Mycroft’s insight on his cases and would text him asking for his opinion on the spot. He remembered the more personal calls after Sherrinford, how Mycroft had thanked him for his interest but had started keeping his distance again. Dr. Watson had mentioned Lestrade repeatedly asking how Mycroft was holding up, but he stalled in contacting him. 

Mycroft had always thought that was a mere testament to how thoughtful and kind Greg was - could it have meant more? Often enough people commented on how someone as smart as Mycroft lacked the social clues to recognize the nuances of relationships. Was there the possibility that he was missing something? 

No, he wasn’t going to let his mind dwell much on that. He wasn’t going to try and make new sense of the timeline he had come to name “The Original Reality” (only because “the real reality” sounded too alliterate and highlighted the bizarreness of the situation he was stuck in). He couldn’t truly think the events or sentiments he was experiencing now could alter the reality his actual life was set in. He couldn’t think the way things were here had any correlation to how it would all turn out once his senses came back. 

Thinking Greg loved him was like thinking it was reasonable for his phone to dust off glitter, for his umbrella to move on its own, or for photographs to change before his eyes.

Still, etched in Mycroft’s memory there was Greg’s face when they had finished dinner the night before. He could hear his voice in bed as he had asked Mycroft to trust him. He did, but there were far too many unexplainable things going on to be able to let go of fears he had carried with him all of his life. If there was one person Mycroft could believe in, it was Lestrade. But in less than 24 hours he had already hurt him. The way his eyes had darkened with worry and confusion proved Mycroft was not worthy of him. 

But, at least tonight he was determined to make it up. It could even help discover what was happening, though that seemed to be the last thing he cared about as he looked through the stocked cupboards in the kitchen - when had he started keeping so many ingredients at the house? He usually dined out or, most frequently, called for food to be delivered. It was a testament of how his mind operated that he had tried to rationalize vanishing photos and self appearing writing, and yet he was most puzzled about the grocery shopping logistics. He reckoned that was probably his brain focusing on one irrational thing at a time, and chose to ignore how there certainly wasn’t a jar of pepper flakes in the shelf a minute ago, and as soon as he had thought of it, it had appeared. 

Judging by how the kitchen was rearranged Mycroft gathered they must have spent quite some time in, unable to keep a smile off his face at the thought of Greg and him cooking and eating there, perhaps watching a film afterward, laughing and sharing lingering touches by the fire. Heat rose in his cheeks and a mixture of restlessness and doubt took over him as he realised that far-fetched fantasy could very much become a reality that night, judging by Lestrade’s flirty card and the fervor in his eyes as he had kissed Mycroft that morning. 

He had always found joy in making a dish from scratch, but couldn’t actually remember the last time he had indulged in it. It wasn’t only that he kept a strict eye on his diet, but that after a while cooking for one had turned an enjoyable experience into a reminder of the lonely life he led. He had once told his brother that he didn’t mind the solitude, but it was just that he was used to it. It felt nice, for a change, to do something that wasn’t for his government, his family, or the societal expectations of him. He caught his reflection on the window, and picked up on a subtle glimmer around his frame, the faint pink coming off as electric waves. 

It was certainly not synesthesia, that could have been manageable. Perhaps some sort of colour vision deficiency then, although he knew it didn’t manifest itself like that either. Maybe he needed new glasses, or to actually wear the ones he had more often. Another medical evaluation. Perchance it was true he was going mad.

Dicing the potatoes, cutting up lettuce and broiling a steak brought his focus solely on the simple task of cooking dinner. He did wonder if he was overdoing it. After all, this was supposed to be a regular Wednesday night, a simple dinner with his partner. The world appeared in his mind unannounced and without much effort. He whispered it, even though he was alone. He feared saying it too loudly. He didn’t know what odd turn of events had led him there, but he walked on eggshells so he wouldn’t disturb this newfound reality. At least for now. If that was it, he only wanted to see that night through. 

Greg let him know he had been pulled into a last-minute meeting but should be leaving the Met in around ten minutes. Mycroft told him not to worry about it too much, trying his best to keep the impatience at bay. 

His phone glowed suddenly. There was the remaining glittering dust from Greg’s earlier text, although this time the light seemed to come from within the device, brightly blue and extending all across the table, spilling from it. 

Mycroft’s heart still came to a halt anytime he got a message from Sherlock, and he feared that was a habit he wasn’t ever going to grow out of. He had gotten used to that form of communication because his brother favored it, and he needed to at least keep that line open. This time there was a photo enclosed of a brightly smiling Rosamund with the telescope Mycroft had given her for her birthday.

“Thank you, Uncle Mycroft, for my ‘starscope’!”, Sherlock had texted. 

Watching his brother interact with her was like seeing a piece of who Sherlock had used to be, a long time ago. A Sherlock perhaps he didn’t even recall being himself, but that Mycroft always wished to get back. 

He smiled and remembered how Rosie’s face had lit up as she told everyone at her birthday party how she had gotten a “stars camera”. 

“She is going to teach you about the planets, finally,” Mycroft texted back. 

He didn’t expect his brother to actually keep the conversation going. Thanking him for the gift was a question of manners and possibly even John pushing Sherlock into being civil. 

“Still completely useless information, I’m afraid. The only exciting thing we have spotted with it is the fact that Mr. Dunne across the street has a fake bags workshop set in his flat”.

“Have you considered it being a lead on the Reiss case?” Mycroft asked back. 

“Of course.”

“And?”

“John checked, a completely different ring of forefeet dealers.”

Just like with their phone call the day before, Mycroft realised he had been holding his breath waiting for Sherlock’s replies, trying to keep him interested by talking about work. 

When the conversation ran its course, Mycroft felt a pang of emptiness in his chest. His phone had left his hands covered in shiny dust again, and he made a note of calling the IT department the next day, although he soon abandoned the idea as he was sure he would be unable to explain the problem. 

A new photograph came through. 

“We have been able to see the whole solar system, as it appears”. The long and pale arm was unmistakably his brother’s, but there were smudges of colourful circles drawn in ink there. Mycroft squinted and realised it was the sun and 9 planets, painted by his niece. 

“You should care to explain to her Pluto is no longer part of our system, though you might be the wrong person to do so,” he pointed out.

“Not this again, brother.”

Before he could reply there was another picture, this time of Rosie herself, toothless smile and proudly showing her tiny arms with doodles of planets done by Sherlock. 

“I know only one person who can make you smile like that.” Mycroft looked up from his phone, furtively wiping it down the speckles with a tea towel and found Greg staring at him with the brightest smile. Mycroft blushed and didn’t bother covering it up. He was sure even if they had been together for months - his mind had settled on the near one-year mark - Greg would still have that effect on him. 

“You know I’d be jealous if she wasn’t so adorable,” Greg laughed. “Tell her Uncle Greg says hi and to run before her dad and uncle get into another science debate.” Mycroft shook his head, the sides of his lip twitching. 

“What?” There was that cheeky grin on Greg’s face again. “It’s my last shot before she goes full Holmes and I can’t follow a thing she says to me.” Although he was his usual charming self, the exhaustion of the day was clear on him. He put himself between Mycroft and the counter, relaxing his body and snaking his arms around Mycroft’s waist. 

There was a sudden catch in Mycroft’s throat. He must have been in a hospital bed somewhere, hallucinating the whole thing under the effects of some heavy medications. Or he must have gotten drugged by an agent wanting to extract sensitive information out of him. And yet when Lestrade said “Fuck, this smells delicious”, trying to go for a potato and Mycroft playfully swatted at his hand, it felt more real than all the facts he had meticulously stored in his brain. 

Mycroft tentatively moved forward, until he was in Greg’s space. He was sure they had shared a thousand kisses just like this, even if he only had a recollection of a couple of them. For Greg it was probably another kiss at the end of the workday. For Mycroft, it would be the first time he’d initiated it. He was going to kiss Gregory Lestrade. On par with the inexplicable scheme of events, he guessed. 

Greg looked relaxed, like they had all the time in the world. Mycroft closed the space between them and now that he was not caught off guard by it, he could focus on how their lips fit together, how there was a little stubble on Greg’s chin that deliciously scratched his bottom lip, how he was tilting his head up to bring Mycroft closer. 

As they parted, Mycroft lingered with his face close to Greg’s, his eyes closed but their foreheads touching. He didn’t know what he was waiting for - maybe for something startling to happen like in a fantasy story, to suddenly wake up alone in his bed, the bubble burst. Only kissing Greg could have him believing in such things. 

Instead, he found Greg staring at him, smiling a soft “Hello, darlin’” against his jaw, as he placed a peck there. 

“Hello,” Mycroft whispered back, his hands not dropping from Greg’s shoulders. 

He continued kissing alongside Mycroft’s face, snuggling against his neck. “M’glad you resolved whatever was bothering you last night, love,” he said, and that word certainly hadn’t lost its effect on Mycroft, whose heart skipped a beat. 

Even if his body was only concerned with Greg’s proximity, his mind saw an opportunity to settle some doubts, and perhaps a chance to honestly apologise. 

“I’m sorry for carrying my worries to bed last night.” He smoothed out the sides of Greg’s hair, as he watched him lean into the touch. This could be one of the easiest and most convincing undercover performances Mycroft had ever put on. “I’ve been thinking about what you said…”

“I knew you had heard me,” Greg sighed. 

“Yes,” Mycroft continued, “I… sometimes I still have my reservations about-“ Greg frowned but let him go on, and Mycroft rushed to add “-Not about us, no, never. But about, I guess, about letting you care for me.”

He almost forgot this conversation had begun as a way to get Lestrade’s side of the story and piece together how they had started a relationship. Instead, here he was - wearing his heart on his sleeve and more vulnerable than he remembered ever being. 

Just like with Sherlock’s texts, Mycroft was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Greg to take back everything he had said the night before, every kiss and tender look he had cast Mycroft’s way. Instead, he looked at him and ran his hands through his face. The slight defeat to his expression told Mycroft it wasn’t the first time he had raised doubts about Greg’s affection. Knowing that made it harder to put him in that position again.

There were sparkles around Greg, and it was different from how Anthea had been surrounded by a halo. Greg’s light came from within him as he looked into Mycroft’s eyes, completely unaware that a golden beam like liquid sunshine was pouring out of his pores. 

“Mycroft Holmes,” he said, putting his hands on both sides of Mycroft’s face, “I told you once that if you’d let someone take care of you, if you admitted that even being the powerful man you are you don’t have to bear the weight of the world on your shoulders alone… If you realised you didn’t have to do this on your own... hey-”

He tilted Mycroft’s head up, so he could not escape the earnest stare, Greg’s silver hair shining with the gold reflection around him. “Hey, look at me. I said it would make me incredibly happy to be that person. Not only because I wanted to care for you, but because I wouldn’t know how to stop even if I tried.”

Mycroft knew he was blinking as if his mind was rebooting, and it felt that way.

“That was not your initial speech”. 

His answer came quickly because he remembered a certain conversation with Greg over drinks, and he recalled every word of it. Getting information and keeping the facade didn’t matter anymore. He knew what Greg had said that night and in the encounters they had had afterward. Greg had kept offering his help and company many times. He had asked Mycroft to share a cup of tea, even a pint down at the pub - he remembered that vividly because he had laughed at the notion of awkwardly standing in a crowded bar. It had been one of the first genuine laughs he’d had in months, and Greg had smiled and said “worth the shot”. Mycroft remembered it all, and he certainly knew that Greg hadn’t expressed it that way. 

“I did say that when I finally won you over and we had dinner - I always thought it was your way of trying to get rid of me.” He smiled, like he was talking about a lifetime away. Maybe he really was. “We had steak and rosemary potatoes, remember? Is that why you made it today?”

Mycroft stammered, trying to make his mind go into “improv mode” again, but feeling dizzy. He said “Yes”, though, because he couldn’t resist the hopeful smile Greg was giving him. It was contagious and he felt himself grin as well, adding: “I also got the cake you like.”

Greg smirked, apparently relaxing now that Mycroft had changed the conversation. “Mycroft Holmes, are you trying to seduce me?” he teased. 

Greg’s light slowly dimmed throughout the night but Mycroft could swear there was still a golden gleam behind those beautiful chocolate eyes. Maybe that wasn’t abnormal, perhaps it was just the way Gregory Lestrade shone by nature. 

——

Mycroft would have to talk to Anthea, perhaps even Sherlock, about their conviction that Greg liked that cake. As soon as they had finished dinner he had suggested they moved to the study, against Mycroft’s insistence that they stayed in the kitchen. Once they settled on the sofa, the dessert was left untouched. Mycroft knew his own reasons for abstaining, but wasn’t there a big fuss about Greg and the bloody cake? All he seemed interested in was leaning closer to Mycroft, who had spent the last fifteen minutes shifting in his seat.

There was a light around Greg again, but this time it resembled the color of the fire that was burning next to them. It was yellow and orange, the rich tone of an agate. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, swaying the empty glass in his hands. 

“You.” It was easy not to lie about that and he seemed pleased with Mycroft’s answer. 

Something about Greg’s lopsided smile made Mycroft feel cornered. He enjoyed the look in his eyes, a determination Mycroft had only witnessed when Lestrade was approaching a suspect. 

Greg moved closer but as they were inches apart he stopped, taking his time waiting for Mycroft’s reaction. He was eager, the intensity in his face was unmistakable, but he had fully submitted to Mycroft’s decision on what would happen next. 

When he kissed Greg it felt like he was drinking in the light that he emitted, and Mycroft felt it going down his spine. He imagined that even metaphorically that would be what being throughout-fully kissed by Greg would feel like, and deciphering the irrational aspects of the moment was a lost battle. It actually felt like the light had taken over his brain completely, and he could only feel. Greg’s lips gave in under his guidance but remained insistent, urging him to part his mouth. Those hands that Mycroft had spent years trying not to focus on were now making their way from his neck to his chest, one of them working his tie open. Mycroft felt the room spun, Greg’s body the only thing he had to hold on to. When he opened his eyes he saw that the rays of light were a deep shade of red now, embracing both of them in their glow.

Greg appeared as dazed as Mycroft, not tearing his gaze from his face as he slowly climbed onto his lap. His neck was exposed and Mycroft placed a kiss there like he had desired to do since probably the day they had met. Greg’s moan vibrated through both of them and Mycroft’s brain suddenly kicked in. 

He jumped off the sofa like something had burnt him, and he instantly saw the light go away and Greg’s look of confusion. 

Mycroft felt a dip in his stomach, pain taking over his chest. He didn’t know if it was the combination of all the sensations and feelings, the light that had been hugging both of them, or the dawning realisation that Greg was actually kissing him, bringing them closer. A part of his heart broke as somehow his mind took the reins and yelled at him that all of this didn’t make sense. And if he knew one thing in his life, it was that there should be rhyme and reason to events - once it stopped, everything went awfully wrong eventually. He had been in the eye of the storm before, many more times than he’d care to, and couldn’t handle the uncertainty when it came to Greg. 

Mycroft was breathing hard and fast, adjusting his eyes to the room that moments ago had shined so brightly and that had abruptly gone dark now. Greg was looking at him in concern, and as he made a move to get up, Mycroft stepped back. Greg flinched like he had been hurt. 

He felt trapped, part of a bitter stunt of fate. Now, no matter where or when he would wake up, he would forever be ruined. Before, he had the option of dreaming and placating his wishes with endless excuses. He only hoped that his passage back to the real world, once he came to his senses, resembled that of those who reincarnated according to the Greeks. He wanted nothing more than to drink from the Lethe river and follow Plato’s promise that he’d forget everything from this current life. Otherwise, he would never be able to function with the vivid recollection of what being in Greg’s arms was like. 

“Uhm… Excuse me, I think my phone went off”. He was trying not to look at Greg because he was sure he was going to break down and confess all the inexplicable things that were happening if he did. 

By the time Greg reached him at the door, Mycroft already had his coat and briefcase in his hands. 

“Mycroft, what’s wrong?”

“Work,” he answered, each word paining him immensely. “I was right, my phone had rung. And they wouldn’t call unless it was an emergency.”

“When it is urgent they call you at the phone in your study,” Greg frowned, still concerned but rubbing his eyes in frustration. “What the fuck is happening? Is this about last night? Stay here and talk to me about it, please.”

Mycroft had learnt about black holes in school, then some more in university, but mostly on his own. Unlike his brother, he took great interest in astrophysics and valued the knowledge outside their planet. That was partly why he encouraged his niece’s curiosity on the subject - it was a humbling reminder that they were part of something bigger and vaster. 

He knew all about black holes - how gravity inside them pulled so much that nothing, not even light could escape. Greg had been a supernova just moments ago, and now Mycroft could actually see him trap all that light in. 

“I’m sorry, Gregory,” he said and closed the door behind him. The night outside seemed to be even darker. 

——

He got behind the wheel of his car, something he only did when he was stressed and unable to focus, or on the rare occasion he took some time off and drove to the country. He wondered if he got to do that more often there, and if Greg had accompanied him. If they had taken weekend trips, if he would doze off as Mycroft drove, if he would gaze outside the window or sing along to music he had chosen. 

Mycroft wished more than anything to recall those memories. He almost felt Greg in the car, and so much was happening that he didn’t find it odd to hear his laugh resonate in the space. He looked at the passenger seat and could swear there was remaining shiny dust there.

He drove aimlessly for a good 50 minutes. His phone went off two times but his battered brain couldn’t handle a conversation. He stared at London passing by, focusing on known places, old buildings, familiar street turns. He didn’t know what he was looking for - maybe half expecting the Eye of London to be floating in the Thames, or for Buckingham Palace to be painted green. Perhaps wishing that it wasn’t just his personal life that was plagued with anomalies and inexplicable events. He had always felt one with the city - it felt odd that it remained so untouched as Mycroft was completely upside down. 

He didn’t realise where he was until he took a turn and parked his car on Baker Street. He supposed it was an old habit from not being able to sleep worrying about Sherlock. Mycroft used to drive himself all the way to whatever place his brother was staying, and wait the whole night by the door to make sure nothing would happen to him. 

That had been a long while ago, long before Dr. Watson, long before Sherlock had gotten a family of his own. It seemed like ages ago, a time when Mycroft would frantically run around London trying to keep him safe, and feeling so alone. But, if this was 10 years ago, he would call Lestrade. “Anytime, Mycroft. Really,” he had said. And Mycroft had believed him. Maybe because he appeared to truly care about Sherlock, maybe because Mycroft was tired, perhaps even desperate to have someone in his corner. Even before he was meticulously vetted, Mycroft had trusted him. He would say “Everything will be okay, you’ll see,” and although Mycroft wasn’t quite sure about it, it would always comfort him. 

He needed that now more than ever. To feel like he wasn’t going insane, to rationalize what was happening, to fix the pain in his chest. He needed someone to let him in and offer some tea. Not because they had to, but because they wanted to. Even if Mycroft hated talking about his life, it would be nice to have someone willing to lend a sympathetic ear. He needed to sleep on someone’s uncomfortable sofa, like people who had someone to go to often did. He needed to hear that leaving your partner in the middle of the night was a wrong that could be mended. 

He stopped the engine. Sherlock wouldn’t even let him pass the stairs, that was certain. He supposed he could call Anthea, but he didn’t want to put her in the uncomfortable position of having to say yes because he was her boss. She had offered assistance several times over the years, knowing Mycroft’s family history. He had turned her down and figured the kind of job they did was disrupting enough to her life already. Not exactly a 9 to 5 one. 

He glanced at the sky, sure the stars hadn’t been that bright a moment ago. If he recalled correctly, it had been a mostly starless night. Insanity kept following him. Here he was, all alone in his car in the dead of night, probably delusional. All except that last detail resembled remarkably the life he had led for many years. 

He looked at the windows on the first floor of 221B one last time and noticed a light was on. He started the car again and resolved to drive to the office. If he wouldn’t be able to sleep, then maybe it was time to do some proper detective work.


	4. Like a bell through the night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy late Halloween! We are still at eerie, witchy land in this story so to make out for it, today is double chapter day! Thank you to everyone who is leaving Kudos and comments, working on this story is giving me writing motivation like I haven't experienced in a while - and for that, I have a special group of people to thank. You know who you are, thank you for the constant support and cheering!
> 
> (Also I love Anthea so much. This chapter is kind of an ode to her and Mycroft's friendship. And my Holmes brothers feels as well)

Mycroft was no stranger to spending long nights at the office. Quite often he had to stay there working - then some other times, he just did it to put off going back to a lonely home. He enjoyed his privacy and the routine he was accustomed to, finding comfort and security in being in control. Why had he ended up here again, when someone was willing to spend the night with him now? “Fear” crossed his mind.

He also knew this was all not true, apparently the only one to realise that. Using that knowledge to his advantage to indulge in a years-long crush felt like taking advantage of Lestrade. He had seemed like a willing participant, but he might as well have been the Greg that showed up in his dreams. It was not fair to him. Mycroft needed all the facts he could get, and the proximity to Greg diverted him from that course. 

He looked in the old cupboard and there it was, the spare change of clothes he kept in the office. It was usually in high rotation, sometimes even four full sets of suits awaiting him, but it looked like they hadn’t been worn in a while. Mycroft remembered the comment his colleague had made about him not wanting to be disturbed while he was at home. He probably had cut down on the long nights going over work as well. England seemed to be holding up quite fine. 

He got a text from Greg and a couple of missed calls. 

“Just let me know you are okay.”

Mycroft looked at the phone. A regular mobile now, a sleek model, the latest one. No glitter whatsoever. He kind of missed it.

He couldn’t believe he was screwing things up so much with Greg. If he ever went back where he came from, would this reality go on without him? Would this Mycroft have to deal with the repercussions of the mess he was causing? God, he sounded just as crazy as he believed to be. 

Seeing how selfless Greg was certainly was not news for Mycroft. He had seen it many times before, just never so directly related to himself. He knew Greg was angry at him, and he had all the right to be, but still he was trying to make sure Mycroft was fine. The least he could do was swallow his fear and reply. 

“I am. I had to come in on an emergency, I told you.”

“Bullshit,” came Greg's response. “I don’t care for an excuse, just wanted to be sure you weren’t abducted or something.”

“Good night, I’m glad to hear you’re all in one piece.” Greg’s words hurt, but Mycroft had no trouble believing he deserved them.

He wondered if “in one piece” was really an accurate description of how he was. The rightful anger and disappointment Greg felt was like a blow to his heart. 

So he did what he did best in high stress situations like this: he tried to get the whole picture. Oftentimes people thought that what he did was pick up only on the details - the stray lock of hair here, the misplaced file there, the change of lipstick color on some minister’s wife. No. He paid attention to all those signs, but without looking at the whole picture, everything was lost.

He had tried getting snippets of information, but he needed to approach this as if he was dealing with someone else’s problem. Detachment, distance - he needed to tap into that, the things he had been so good at. Once he had all the facts he would've known how to behave and fix the issue. 

If he wanted to know about a person, what did he do? He usually looked for records, tracked their activities, known associates, found out where they went and with whom. What they liked, what they feared. What they hid.

He could start by asking around, but that was out of the question in this case. Everyone would believe his mind to be completely gone if he had to fish for information about his own life. He couldn’t trace too much of it either because he had spent a lot of money and time making sure no-one could have access to those details about him. 

He remembered the photographs in the drawer and pulled out the key to further inspect them, hopefully not clouded by sentimentality like last time. He got lost for a few minutes staring at the picture from Rosamund’s birthday, though. He remembered the day well and was happy to see the cheerful essence of his niece remained the same, almost transcending the image. Mycroft could see that while both Greg and him were smiling at the camera, Greg’s eyes were slightly turned towards him. It was not his brain but his heart telling him that Greg being there with him meant Mycroft wasn’t afraid anymore. 

He set the photograph on his desk and tried to focus on piecing together almost 12 months of his life with what he had. There was a ticket stub for an Opera show that coincided with the day of his birthday last year. The ticket holder was “Lestrade, G.” and the seats weren’t Mycroft’s usual ones. So Greg must have treated him to an evening out. A real birthday celebration, the kind he hadn’t had since probably his teen years. 

Knowing Greg’s birthday as well (Mycroft had seen it on his file a long while ago and the date had remained on his mind), he searched through the papers sprawled in front of him. In the many years of knowing each other Mycroft had tried to acknowledge the event, but always fell out of place sending his congratulations. Yet there it was now: May 20th dinner at a Covent Garden sushi restaurant. He had heard of the place, but it certainly wouldn’t have crossed his mind going on his own. He took a look at their check, but it didn’t say what they had ordered. Mycroft wondered what they had ate, if they had shared dessert, if Greg had a dish he favoured. He had tangible evidence in his hands that the evening had taken place, but he wished he could remember it. At least, that they had taken a photo he could selfishly hold on to, even if it was the kind of token he wasn’t keen on saving. He hated chaos and most of all reminders of the past, but these were happy memories he apparently had good reason holding on to. Some of them didn’t make sense (he had a pyjamas store ticket, for instance, and a receipt from Tesco of 6 bottles of apple juice). There were multiple orders from the bakery place, and he spared a thought for the cake left untouched at home. He hoped at least Greg was enjoying it, but he doubted it. 

After pouring a glass of whiskey from the bottle Greg had given him, he settled down to look in a box he kept in the drawer as well. He found a takeaway menu, greasy at the corners and folded in half. He noticed a scribble in Greg’s handwriting. Mycroft read it and downed what was left of his drink. 

There really was no use in keeping searching after he read “had to run to get something at the Yard. Order anything you like. I love you.” For some reason, he knew for sure that was the first time Greg had said those words to him. He couldn’t remember the moment, but there was a recollection of at least of the overwhelming feeling he had experienced. He read it over and over, trying to bring back anything from that day, wishing with force to recall Greg’s face when he had come back, to know if he was coy or full of confidence, how it had sounded to hear those words repeated out loud.

Not for the first time in all those days he cursed his mind for failing him so grandly. The worries that he was going insane were pushed to the background, surpassed by the anger and hurt at himself and the situation he was in. 

Because facts were how he could make sense of everything and get his brain to function, he searched online for the name of the restaurant. The map showed it was five blocks away from Greg’s apartment. He had no need to look up that address because even though he had never been there, he knew well where Lestrade lived. Well, he guessed now technically he had been there. Maybe even made himself at home.

Was he staying over the night? Did they usually have dinner together? Had Mycroft come straight from work? Had Greg had a tough day and was compelled by it to make such a declaration?

It was too painful to learn of these things and not remember anything, yet know that he needed to gather all the facts he could. Knowing his mind was malfunctioning so terribly not only frustrated him, but terrified him. If he didn’t have his mind, if he wasn’t the most intelligent man in the room, then what was he? How could he help his brother if he wasn’t at the top of his intellect? How could he make himself of value at work, fulfill the promises he had made to his country? How could he be a positive influence in his niece’s life? How would he be enough for Greg? Surely what else did he have to offer but that?

He tried to look over more clues now that he was in the eye of the storm, but he couldn’t focus. His emails were wiped clean. There wasn’t a single trace of his previous life - he thought bitterly of the many times he had wished for that to happen, to be someone else, rid himself of the responsibilities and the failures and start over. He was here now, apparently having been given a clean slate, and yet all he wanted was to be himself. His hands gleamed a soft pink, but he rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, the headache clouding his vision. 

It turned out running a profile analysis wasn’t as fun when it was his life under the microscope. 

He took a glance at the mess on his desk and put it all back in the box he had found and locked it away once more. He loosened up his tie and felt sleep slowly washing over him. It felt like there was a shift in the room and he was expecting more colourful lights as he had seen lately, but instead, it smelled like lilacs. He didn’t remember the scent being so strong in any room but his own when he was at university, the first-ever place he had felt like his own. He didn’t exactly feel at ease but breathing was getting easier, his heart rate slowing down. 

He curled in on himself on the couch, like he used to do when he needed a few minutes of sleep between meetings. He closed his eyes and didn’t dare open them for he felt the scent getting stronger, like someone was approaching. It felt strange, not like an actual person was in the room but like there was a presence moving around. It didn’t amplify any fear he might have. He realised he missed feeling Greg’s body next to him, how anchoring and comforting that had felt. It was not the same, but as he fell asleep he knew, irrationally, that he was not alone in the room.  
He dreamt of the sweetness of a cake he had not yet tasted, of telescopes and stars and laughter, of his car stuck in an endless traffic jam and a voice telling him to open his eyes and look around. 

——

“Sir? Sir?” He heard a voice. “Mycroft, wake up”. He opened his eyes and had to adjust to where he was. Anthea usually nudged him awake during long flights, planes being one of the only places he could fall asleep in. The pain in his back as he made a move and sat down let him know he was in his office and had spent the night on the couch. 

“Are you okay?” she asked, her eyes quickly scanning his face for any sign of injury. He recognised the expression, he just hadn’t seen in it a while on her. They rarely got involved in too dangerous situations now. 

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he tried to reassure her. Managing to say that was hard enough, not only from waking up startled but because it was difficult to lie to her when she genuinely looked so torn. 

“Did you spend the night here?”

“Uhm, yes, I did.”

Anthea averted her eyes as she sat down on the other end of the couch. 

“Don’t look so surprised, it’s hardly the first time.”

“Well, it’s been a while. Ever since you and the Detective Inspector…” she seemed to let go of some of her usual formality. “I know you two don’t like being apart. I’m going on a limb here, but did something happen between you?”

Mycroft had known her for almost fifteen years. A brilliant young woman who had made her way not relying on connections or some prestigious university to back her up. Many had underestimated her because of it, but Mycroft recognised talent and drive when he saw it. She was ambitious and fearless, but most of all, she was loyal. He could lie to himself all he wanted, but he couldn’t truly deceive her. 

“I messed everything up.” He put his head on his hands, closing his eyes. “I ruined all of it, I was awful.” She looked at him patiently.

“Anthea, I’m losing my mind. I really am. I don’t remember anything, I’m going by blindly.”

She took a deep breath, and Mycroft could see she was hiding her concern. “What don’t you remember?”

He tried to speak but his voice cracked, and she got up to fetch him a glass of water. Mycroft tried to form words, but he just stammered, fearful he was going to break down if he could get a sentence out. 

“I went over your notes from the fiscal policy meeting. You were spot on as usual,” she had taken her professional tone again, but it was for Mycroft’s benefit, to reassure him. “Your brother was pleased when he left, and that’s a small miracle if you asked me,” she carried on, “and I don’t know what happened last night, but Lestrade seemed as smitten as usual when he sent over his regards yesterday.” 

There was an air of finality to her words that calmed Mycroft. That was another of her amazing qualities, she knew the way to assure him with cold facts. 

“I think…” she hesitated. She seemed dubious about carrying on with her thoughts and took a moment to look at Mycroft. He met her eyes, and her now usual purple light was back. He was so exhausted he almost pointed this out to her, but he didn’t want to chance her realising how ridiculous he was being. 

“I think there is a good chance your mind is boycotting your happiness”, she said. 

Mycroft felt tired, like the weight of the last two days was crushing down on him. There was something about sleeping in his clothes, feeling his eyes sting, and his neck crack that allowed him to let go of his walls around Anthea. He hadn’t been able to shake off the feeling that someone was watching him the whole night. 

“Do you think someone could have slipped something in my drink?” he asked. 

Anthea pushed her lips tightly together, her eyes slightly shifting. She seemed skeptical, but was clearly running the options in her mind. 

“I supposed nothing should be ruled out, all things considered. You haven’t been with anybody else outside the office but Lestrade, right?”

“I don’t remember,” Mycroft said earnestly, a little bit of desperation to his voice. “Not since last Tuesday, that is for sure.”

She gave him a little nod. “Would you want me to call for a full blood test?”

Mycroft knew that it wasn’t a chemical reaction in his body malfunctioning. He had been sure of it the night before, when the feeling of being watched had taken over him. Something was clearly wrong with him, but he doubted a physical check would show it. He didn’t want to keep worrying Anthea. 

“No, I’m sure it’s just exhaustion. Haven’t been able to properly rest in a while,” he assured her. 

Talking with Anthea placated his worries. Just having her listen to him and give suggestions without looking at him like he was insane brought comfort. He knew he was a fool for believing no-one cared for him when she had proved to be a friend over the years. He took a look at her, and while the light was still shining purple, he got hit by an intense ray, forcing him to close his eyes. He got to see all of the moments they had spent together - some of which he recognized, others that he was reliving then. Anthea bringing him tea to the sofa at his house as they listen to old records, walking him to his uncle’s grave, sharing a laugh after meetings with the PM people. He saw now all the efforts of care, a shared lunch, a tablet of aspirin when he was stressed, her on her casual clothes rushing to the spot when he needed her. Once he saw that he couldn’t un-see it: the power of her friendship and loyalty. 

Anthea was still hesitant but seemed to read something on his face that calmed her. 

“Better?” she asked tentatively.

“Much,” Mycroft said, truthfully. 

“I was meant to tell you your brother is here to see you, Sir” she said, her formal tone returning. 

Mycroft resumed his professional stance as well, getting up and grabbing the coat he had hanging on his chair. 

“Maybe going over your steps might help, retrace the events. Something particular could catch your attention,” she suggested. 

He gave her a short nod, watching as she went towards the door, the light only a faint glimmer around her after Mycroft’s whirlwind of memories. 

“Anthea,” he called one more time. “Thank you. For everything.”

She smiled. “Any time, boss.”

Mycroft took a few deep breaths, still not over the overwhelming feelings. He had a friend, and he needed to come to terms with that.   
Sherlock came in, successfully bursting his thought bubble. Sometimes it still struck Mycroft to see his brother healthy and content. He knew that a lot of his struggles still remained, but he was pushing through them every day. It would have been nice to tell him how proud Mycroft was, but there was too much water under the bridge between them, even if they seemed to get along better. He wished on some level Sherlock knew this without having to say so. It was still difficult for Mycroft to see him as a grown man making his own decisions, and not the little boy that needed protecting. Mycroft, more than anyone, knew that his brother’s flaws and mistakes wouldn’t just disappear. Not even his obnoxious habit of-

“You look terrible.”

“Good morning to you as well, brother,” Mycroft sighed, adjusting on his seat.

Sherlock sat down opposite him. “You spent the night here,” he declared. 

“Work to catch up on, I’m afraid.”

“You slept on the couch, you still have the indentations from your watch in your arm. You usually take it off before sleeping.” He tilted his head looking at Mycroft. 

“Is there a reason why you’re here?” Mycroft asked. “I’m sure it’s not only to comment on my sleeping habits.”

Sherlock spent a few seconds with his mouth open, apparently contemplating what to say next. “I came by to bring you the letter from Rosie’s principal, and the current course of action they are implementing. The security has been upped, so I figured you’d want to confirm that with the people you sent.”

Mycroft took the letter and tucked it away. “How is she?” he asked. 

“Good. Still unaware that her school was targeted twice in less than three months.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to read Sherlock. 

“This is not your fault, you know,” he pointed out. “It comes with the job, family being in danger and doing what you can to protect them.”

“You should know,” Sherlock said, and the words made Mycroft involuntarily close his eyes in pain. When he looked up, however, his brother’s face resembled something close to gratitude instead of snark. But it was not that which caught his attention. Sherlock seemed to be surrounded by a silhouette of light, the same shade of blue as the scarf he was wearing. Mycroft had to look away because if anyone could read the worry on his face, the signs that something was amiss, it was definitely Sherlock. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I’m glad to hear so. And that she is getting along with her classmates, not that there is anything we can help with there-”

“Yes, probably more John or Lestrade’s area,” Sherlock interrupted. 

They stared at each other in silence for a while. Mycroft was trying his best not to focus on the light around Sherlock, which was shining more brightly every minute. 

“Any other reason you stopped by?” Mycroft chanced. 

“Are you still coming over tomorrow?”

“Yes, certainly,” Mycroft assured him, even though he didn’t know where Greg and he stood on that.

“Both of you?”

“Brother dear, you hate wasting your time on social conventions and manners regarding invitations and such, and quite honestly I didn’t imagine John to be such a stickler for formalities either. I don’t see why you have to ask about it two times in a few days.”

Sherlock hid his face behind his cup of tea, but his eyes pierced through Mycroft. “You wouldn’t be sleeping here if everything was fine between Lestrade and you,” he said. “You also wouldn’t stalk in your car late at night.”

Mycroft knew denying it was not a choice because his brother was not the Holmes believing to see things that weren’t there. He was.

“You know, you could have rung,” Sherlock continued before Mycroft could say anything. “John and Rosie would have actually enjoyed having you over.”

“And you?” Mycroft asked with faked nonchalance. 

“I would prefer it if you didn’t harm your back sleeping on a couch. You’re not exactly young anymore.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

“It would also have been nice to repay the favor,” Sherlock said, more coyly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft said. “You know Rosamund’s protection is my priority.”

“I don’t mean that favor.” Sherlock looked at him in the eyes, a bit softer now. “I mean the many nights when you made sure I didn’t sleep on an old couch, or worse.” Sherlock was looking down, and so was Mycroft, but out of the corner of his eye he could see that the blue light was almost filling the whole room, shining brightly around his brother. 

“Talk to him,” Sherlock pointed out. “Fix this, whatever it is you did.” He seemed to have composed himself. “I don’t always say it, but he is good for you.”

“You never say it.” Mycroft smiled.

“Well, he is. You are, both of you … it works. You’re a team,” he sighed like he was making a big effort saying these things. “You have always been, at least in my eyes.”

Mycroft knew he would never admit it to Greg’s face how much he cared for him, but Sherlock had always valued him highly. Being put on the same level of affection that Sherlock had for Lestrade, shocked Mycroft. 

Sherlock suddenly got up, the blue light around him flickering like a flame as he adjusted his coat. 

“Tomorrow, 7 sharp,” he looked over his shoulder as he said so. “We are kind of sticklers for formalities now, brother.”

“You still have paint in your arms, formal man.” Mycroft gave him a little side smile. 

As his brother left, Mycroft experienced something similar to how he had felt the day before - he knew it was too good to be real, but for once in his life, he gave himself permission to hope that it could be. That while neither of them were the most sentimental beings, Sherlock and he could have these talks regularly. 

It only made it hurt so much more knowing he would lose it. 

——

He needed some air and not to talk to anyone. He suspected Anthea had made excuses for him the whole day because he was not bothered once, and so he managed to sneak out without alerting anyone. He decided to walk for a bit, an unusual habit for him, but it seemed to be what he irrationally felt he should be doing. 

He took a look at the people on the streets, past St. James's Park - they all looked regular, normal, no light shining from them or glitter dust anywhere. London felt magical, but then again, London always was.

It was not his area, but he knew some people were tasked with dealing with the paranormal. His omniscient power was not such for certain matters. He had tried very hard not to consider that alternative. The reason why he didn’t believe in ghosts was that if they were real, his uncle would have shown up at his house when he was turning the old smoking room into a private cinema. But he knew that inexplicable events had certainly happened. His colleagues worked hard to keep it under wraps, and Mycroft was only called in on one or two occasions in his whole career simply to deal with the repercussions. He wasn’t briefed about it and never knew exactly what had happened. Frankly, he had had a hard time believing stories about possessions and disappearances. As far as he was concerned, his strength was how he worked with the cold facts, and that was what he stuck to. 

He sat on one of the benches, people walking past him. He felt he was being watched. Not in the regular way he knew was bound to happen in a hyper-vigilant modern city, but closely and personally. There was no one around him at the moment, but he knew sometimes the people lurking in the dark, concealed, were the most dangerous ones. Still, it felt like the night before, the presence being there to reassure him and not harm him. Inexplicably, it made him feel safe and less alone. 

He could only think of another place where he’d feel equally as secure, next to only one person that would make him feel taken care of. He didn’t know how he would explain his behaviour to Greg, but before he could notice it, he was opening the door to his house, ready to face him.

He didn’t have to build up the courage, as it turned out. There was not a single trace of Greg in his home. 

It seemed normal again. Empty.


	5. Love's a state of mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the last two chapters were heavier on the angst and I wanted to extend the post-Halloween feeling, here is the other chapter for the day, a more hopeful one. Reading all of your comments is making my days, thank you so much <3

Mycroft now understood why people called the house frightening. It was a big place, and without Greg there it only highlighted how lonely it felt. Mycroft didn’t even have the presence to be there with him, seemingly having abandoned him and chosen to stay behind in the streets of London. 

He left his umbrella and briefcase by the door, as well as his coat. He was putting down his suit of armour. He waited. Nothing happened. He was half expecting them to move, vanish, do something. He was half wishing for it.

He headed to his study and remembered the many nights he had gone through those same steps. This reality Mycroft could be used to a house filled with laughter and kisses and company - for him, though, it had only been a couple of days of that. He would treasure them forever, and now took back the hope that he would forget. He didn’t want to. He wanted to remember what it felt like to wake up next to Greg and to stare at the look of adoration on his face. He wanted to remember everything he knew now about Anthea, how he saw her company and loyalty in a new light. He didn’t want to take her friendship for granted anymore. He wanted to hold on to his niece’s drawings and regretted not taking them from the office with him to look at again, hold on to the feeling of being an admired figure by her a little longer. He didn’t want to forget the gratitude in Sherlock’s face, how his soft expression matched the one he had when he was little and Mycroft would take him to the British Library on the weekends. 

Greg hadn’t called, and Mycroft didn’t blame him. He knew the ball, so to speak, was in his court. He had to make a move if he wanted Greg to know how he felt. He had proof of Greg having said “I love you”, but in all honesty, he couldn’t really be sure he had said it back. He must have, right?

He loved Greg from the very beginning, perhaps from the moment he had picked up the phone and heard his voice, how earnest he had sounded in worry over Sherlock even though he had just met him. He probably loved him the day they had met at a crime scene when Mycroft had to tell him to step aside from the investigation. Greg had turned around to glance at Mycroft twice while instructing his team. He had looked puzzled and maybe intrigued. He loved him when he would make awful jokes when they run into each other, with the hopes of making Mycroft laugh and telling him “I’ll get you next time.” Mycroft had truly loved him that night when Greg had driven him to his house, shared a glass of whiskey and stayed in silence with him, never judging his actions. Mycroft had spent a lot of time waiting for the feelings to go away or to learn something about Greg that would inevitably disappoint him. But he had kept falling for him every day, and it was clear as day now. 

He waited. Surely this realisation was going to set something in motion- Greg would show up through the door, grateful to hear Mycroft had come to his senses. 

Instead, he faced the night alone. 

His bed felt as strange and empty as the rest of the house. 

At 2 am Mycroft gave up on trying to get some sleep and picked up his phone. He turned on the bedside lamp and inspected the mobile. No glitter, no shining. 

_“I’m sorry if I never tell you I love you,”_ he typed, then deleted.  
_“I’m sorry for storming out last night.”  
“I’m sorry for taking you for granted”. _  


He kept staring at the empty message bubble.  


Then, finally: “I’m sorry, Greg.”

The reply came through almost immediately. 

“I’m sorry too.” Greg’s first message said. “I’m sorry I cannot get inside your brain and make you see,” he added. 

Mycroft’s breath got caught in his throat. If there was someone who could manage that, it would only be Greg. 

He wanted to ask if anything in particular struck Greg as odd this week, if he remembered something strange happening after they had run into each other on Tuesday, but now he was not even in a position to do so. He could not ask where Greg was either. The only thing he could do was leave him alone. 

He didn’t sleep at all that night, waiting for either Greg or the presence to reappear. He was used to getting answers, and if he was to be confronted with an apparition, then he was going to demand an explanation about what was happening. He had given up on figuring that out on his own.

He would have been more surprised to see Greg returning than the eerie being that had watched him. 

None of them paid him a visit and Mycroft spent the rest of the night in his study, staring at the fire that seemed to burn less intensely than when Greg had been there.

——

Once the sun came up and he knew Greg was awake, Mycroft had to fight the urge to contact him even more. 

“I can’t go on like this, I really can’t.” He had decided to call Anthea instead. He didn’t have to explain much and she didn’t ask too many questions either. Only if he was okay and needed anything, and Mycroft agreed to not go to the office. He couldn’t remember when was the last time he had taken a day off. He made a promise to himself to get more free time if he ever could get Greg back. 

“He spent the night at his old flat,” she informed Mycroft, even without him having to ask. It pained him to know that even though Greg was living there with him, for some reason he had held on to his apartment. Maybe he had been expecting Mycroft to back out of their relationship. The worst part was that he had proven him right. 

“Get some rest and let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” Anthea said. Then, as Mycroft was about to interrupt her, “I will manage everything here, trust me,” she added. 

“I do,” Mycroft assured her. 

Every memory with her got more and more clear in his mind, and as Mycroft hanged up, he saw a purple flash before his eyes. 

He should have used the time to look around some more, but he was exhausted. Something was happening with Anthea, Sherlock and Greg, but he could not see the connection there. He had often wondered if he was put in a similar position to the one his brother had been in when he had been extorted, how that would go. He liked to believe he would have been as brave to risk his own life and reputation to protect those he cared about. They were now intertwined in some strange happenings because of him, and if it wasn’t a fabrication of his mind, then Mycroft needed to do something to protect them. 

—

As the afternoon progressed, he decided to inspect his appointment book. Sure enough, “Dinner at Sherlock’s” was penciled in and he stared at the scribble, wishing for it to vanish. He was scrambling, thinking of excuses to explain why Greg would not be there when his phone lit up. 

“Just got a call from John. Have you talked to your brother today?”. Mycroft had gotten a bit more comfortable about texting, but right then there was nothing else he would have wanted than to hear Greg’s voice. 

He rushed to reply. “No, not since yesterday.”

“Maybe you were right about him having the house bugged,” Greg wrote. “John was afraid I wouldn’t make it tonight. Wonder where he got that idea.”

“Sorry about that, they seem to be very set on having us over tonight.”

“They always do,” Greg replied. “Every other Friday”

Well - even that far along into whatever he was in the middle of, he kept getting surprised. So they had regular dinners at his brother’s apartment. Probably something Greg and John enjoyed, since they were friends. Something Sherlock put up with for his husband’s sake. 

“I must have mixed up the dates then, my apologies.” It seemed strange to be texting Greg like he used to before, very reserved and succinct. Exactly like he had done when he wanted Greg to keep his distance. 

“I didn’t know how much you had told them so I panicked and said I’d be there,” Greg wrote. “I can always say a case developed, but let’s face it, that would only attract Sherlock’s attention more.”

Mycroft huffed a little smile. He loved that man so much. 

“That won’t be necessary. I can excuse myself from it,” he offered. 

When fifteen minutes went by without a reply, Mycroft heard Sherlock’s words echo in his mind - or maybe it sounded like he was actually there. _“Fix this, whatever it is you did.”_

Greg beat him to it. “No, don’t do that. I’ll see you there,” he sent. 

Mycroft had been given another shot. Like that night after Sherrinford, it felt like Greg had extended a lifeline to him once again. 

His phone didn’t cover his hands with glitter, but it got some of its shine back. 

\--

After ringing the bell of Sherlock and John’s apartment, he gave a silent thank you that it was John who opened the door, because he was sure his brother would have cornered him asking what had happened between him and Greg. 

He followed John up the stairs and was pleased to find nothing had changed inside the place. He didn’t know why he expected it to be different, when John, Sherlock and little Rosamund got on perfectly. Of course, them wanting to have him over every fortnight was perhaps the odd occurrence.

As soon as he walked into the living room, he saw Greg. He was out of his work suit, in a t-shirt and jeans, and sitting beside Rosie around her small table. Mycroft was right on time, so he wondered if Greg had gotten there earlier solely to avoid having to talk with him alone before coming up. 

Sherlock poked his head from the kitchen, where John had gone to as well, and mouthed “Fix This” as a greeting. 

When Mycroft was about to say hello, Rosie saw him. She smiled and yelled “Uncle Mycroft!”, causing John to tell her to keep her voice down. She looked shy for a moment before grinning wickedly at him. Mycroft could not really say what the color of the light shining from her was. He would bet it was white, but in reality, it was a non-color. It was bright, so bright that he actually had to squint a little. 

“Uncle Mycroft, we are reading my book,” she proudly said, showing him an upside-down hardcover. 

“Early Halloween gift from Mrs. Hudson,” Greg added, taking it from her tiny hands, not meeting Mycroft’s eyes. 

Mycroft waited for John or Sherlock to reappear, but he had a feeling they were going to let him to his own devices, at least until he talked to Greg. He looked around, taking a cushion and placing it on the floor next to the table. A bit more dignified than trying to fit in a kid-size chair, at least. Though Greg was making it look appealing, 

“What do we have, then?” He asked, tilting his head to get a closer look at the book. 

“Take your pick,” Greg said, “we got vampires, werewolves, witches, fairies. You name it.”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, wondering how this type of reading fitted with the science stuff he knew Sherlock liked to get Rosie. 

“No pirates?” he asked, loud enough for his brother to hear. 

“Shut up,” Sherlock said in an annoyed tone. “Rosie, come here for a second, please,” he called her. It was clear he wanted him to face Greg.

Greg seemed to be very focused on turning the pages of the book and pointedly avoided looking at Mycroft. 

He was aware they both looked ridiculous - two grown men, one sitting on a children’s chair and the other on a cushion on the floor, in the middle of an uncomfortable silence. 

“You look like shit,” Greg said, still skimming the book, keeping his voice down so Rosie couldn’t hear him from the kitchen. Mycroft was sure Sherlock was the one actually paying the most attention and eavesdropping.

“Does that comfort you somehow?” he asked, trying to go for a half-smile. 

Greg turned to him, with a twitch in the corner of his lips as well. “Maybe a little,” he said. “I’m sure I don’t look half as good myself either, your brother clocked the fact that I shaved with the razors I keep in my apartment the minute I walked in.”

Mycroft wanted to tell him he looked dashing as always, and it was true, though there was exhaustion around his eyes. 

“I never sleep well in the house alone, I couldn’t spend two nights in a row there by myself,” he said. “I’m sorry for leaving.”

It made Mycroft feel even more terrible that Greg sounded so apologetical. He, who had done nothing wrong. He, who had had to watch Mycroft go in the middle of the night without an explanation.

“I am the one who is sorry,” he tried his best to keep his voice steady. It was difficult. “There is no excuse for how I left the other night. I haven’t been feeling like myself, Gregory”

“Oh, _Gregory_ , this is bad,” Greg shook his head. “Look, something is happening, clearly at work. I know the last three years have been a shit storm, but you gotta tell me these things, okay?”

Mycroft could not blatantly lie to him, but there was not much he could say to explain what was really going on. He looked down in silence.

“I know who you are,” Greg said, “even if it feels like you don’t, I can only see you for who you really are. And I won’t let them change that.”

He took Mycroft’s hand with his own. The golden light was extending through every finger. 

“But talk to me, Mycroft, for God’s sake.” Greg looked up at him, his usual gentleness slowly returning. “We can only do this if you trust me and you trust in us.”

Mycroft leaned on the table, shifting so he was facing him. He knew Greg would make him work for it a bit - probably less than he deserved-, but he would forgive him. He knew he didn’t deserve it, but that they would make up. He knew it with a certainty that frightened him, knew it in a way that felt different from statistics or proved facts. It brought him some semblance of peace for the first time in these crazy days. 

“There he is,” Greg met his eyes, “there is my Myc.” He grabbed his hand and took him into a hug, and Mycroft felt himself relax close to him. They clumsily got up and Greg’s arm found his waist immediately while he accepted a beer from John, Rosie trotting behind him. 

“Where did Uncle Mycroft go?” she asked, and Mycroft was almost blinded by the light around her, like pure sunbeams. 

Greg laughed. “Your uncle has just been worried a little this week, love. He didn’t go anywhere.”

She frowned in curiosity and it made Mycroft’s heart skip a beat how alike Sherlock she looked. 

“You know witches can do that, right?”, she asked with solemnity, “Send you to places just like that.” She snapped her little fingers that failed to make any sound. She kept her most serious face as Greg crutched down to her height. 

“And do they make you disappear?” he asked with interest. 

Mycroft had never seen a five-year-old roll her eyes in such a cute but devastating way. He hid his smile behind his hands. 

“No, Uncle Greg,” she replied, “you don’t change but everyone around you does. Obviously”

Greg laughed again. “I swear she is one coat and scarf away from barging into my office.”

Greg gave her blonde hair a ruffle before following John to the kitchen. Rosie sat on the floor, with her back resting against Sherlock’s armchair. She took her book but was only tracing the letters on the cover, looking pensive. Mycroft still maintained he was awful around children, but somehow that little girl had stolen his heart the minute he had held her. 

“I know you helped at school, Uncle Mycroft,” she said. 

Mycroft sat next to her but didn’t say anything because he didn’t really know how much Sherlock or John had told her. He was concerned she was aware of the danger she could sometimes be at solely for being who she was and having the family she had. 

“I don’t really care if they call me things,” she said defiantly. 

So this was about her classmates bothering her. Mycroft’s heart broke at how she had taken it with stride. She truly was a Holmes.

“People have a habit of picking on the different,” he said, because it was an awful truth but she had to know there was nothing at fault with her. He wished someone had told him that or that he had been better at pointing it out to Sherlock when he was her age. “But it’s them who are wrong.”

“I know,” she nodded. 

Mycroft looked up and saw Sherlock staring at her with what was a mixture of sadness and utter love. It was like looking into a mirror - Mycroft knew he had looked at his brother exactly like that on many occasions, unknown to Sherlock. 

Rosie leaned her little head against his arm and smiled at him. Mycroft realised that that exceptional girl who had turned his life and priorities upside down looked up to him and loved him. He was immensely lucky. Her light, nothing but luminosity, shone brighter than ever and Mycroft closed his eyes. He remembered then - the first time she had fallen asleep in his arms when she was just shy away from two years old, the day she had gotten ahold of his pastel oils and made a mess of his curtains, Sherlock and him taking her to the park, the afternoons watching movies with Greg the three of them, the day he had pointed out the different constellations to her. He remembered a moment not many months ago, as she had stared in fascination at the images of Messier 63, the Sunflower Galaxy, in Mycroft’s old encyclopedia. She had tried to copy it with crayons and drawn sunflowers all around it. It all came back to him now.

She looked at Sherlock and then at Mycroft. “Dad said you were the only one who could help.” It was Mycroft’s turn to look smug. 

“I was the only one who could help, really?”

Sherlock huffed. “She is clearly exaggerating.”

“I am not!” She frowned her little brow in offense. She titled her head to Mycroft, dropping her voice like she was telling a secret. “Is it because you are clever and can see colours?” she asked.

Mycroft stared at her, then to Sherlock who had a puzzled look.

“It’s okay,” she said, “witches help people with things. If you can see colours I’m sure they think you are intelligent, just like Dad says. But maybe you need a little help.”

Mycroft knew she was not a girl to be fooled by cartoons or mislead by something she had heard at school. While she had a vivid imagination, so alike Sherlock at her age, she had said all that with such a conviction that it tripped Mycroft up and he couldn’t come up with an answer. 

He heard John ask “Did you read something like that to her?”

Sherlock turned his head and said, “I swear I didn’t.”

Greg came into the living room, having heard the last part of the conversation. He never “dumbed it down” for Rosie, so he moved past a confused Sherlock and asked her “Like the Salem witches?”

Rosie sighed and shook her head. “Those women were killed because no-one could read the signs and realise it was clearly a complot. The evidence was clear.”

Greg, John and Mycroft stared at Sherlock.

“Okay, I did read her that.”

John led them to the table then. “Indulge her, please,” he asked. “Sherlock either debates the possibilities of supernatural entities with her citing all of his scientific knowledge or spends hours with her classifying creatures and analysing tales as cases.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t spoil magic for her,” Mycroft defended himself after John and Greg’s humorous looks.

“I am more afraid you’ll join them on creating a diagram for categorizing vampires,” Greg laughed. And then, just out of John’s hearing, “and I wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome. I’m really looking forward to taking you home tonight. I meant it when I said I missed you in bed.”

Sitting down and accepting a bowl of roasted peppers from John was a difficult task after that. There was the same knot in his stomach he had felt the first night he had gone home to Greg. Except now instead of dread and fear, only anticipation remained - the and something else that seemed to bubble up as he watched Greg close his eyes and groan as he bit down on a piece of cake. 

They drove back to Mycroft’s house in his car, since Greg had left his own at his apartment and had taken a cab to Baker Street. 

“Were you expecting this to happen?” Mycroft chanced.

“What?” Greg asked with faked innocence. “Was I expecting you to get your head out of your ass and apologise so you could then drive me home to have amazing make-up sex?” He pretended to look out the window in thought. “Maybe it crossed my mind one or two times.”

A shiver ran down Mycroft’s back and he swallows with difficulty. 

“I did not pretend you to forgive my terrible behavior, though.” He needed to say that. No matter how intoxicating the smell of Greg’s cologne was in the car, no matter how gorgeous he looked blissed out after brandy and cake. He owed this much to him. 

“I still do not expect you to do so,” he said again.

Greg turned in his seat, resting his arm on the window that was fogging up. 

“I am still royally pissed at how you acted, don’t fool yourself. But I’m also too stubborn to let a good thing go.”

 _“He is really good for you”_ , Sherlock’s words echoed in Mycroft’s mind. 

“Maybe I’m too stubborn to see when something is good,” he told Greg, although he kept his eyes on the road, not meeting his eyes. 

Greg put his hands on Mycroft’s knee and squished his leg two times in reassurance. “We’re two bull-headed men, Mycroft. That’s part of the appeal of this. But you just have to see what’s around you.”

\---

The last time Mycroft had done something like this, he had been 19 and snogging a classmate in a secluded room in the library of his university. He had forgotten the haste, the thrill of basically rutting against someone only to chase the rush of the moment. 

“I’ve missed this, so fucking much,” Greg panted against his neck. “God, I hated being away from you, let’s not do that again, okay?”

Mycroft could feel some of Greg’s frustration in the force of his kisses and how he poured that into every roll of his hips against his leg. They had been like this for long, exquisite minutes now, Greg channeling his exasperation at Mycroft’s behaviour and Mycroft just getting lost in the feeling of Greg’s worshipping hands inside his shirt. 

When they had made their way into the house, Mycroft hadn’t known what to expect. He was waiting, or half hoping, for Greg to jump him the minute they had entered the place, anticipating the tension finally snapping. But instead, Greg had just kissed him and headed for the kitchen to put the kettle on. 

He had handed Mycroft a cup of tea and only stole quick kisses in between sips as he told him how weird it had felt to spend the night at his old apartment. 

When Mycroft had put his cup down, Greg had chained his arms around his waist and pulled him forward. 

“This,” he had said, his voice getting deeper, “this is what I couldn’t wait for, laying there in my crappy old bed.” He had kissed Mycroft so quickly and hungrily, their teeth colliding and hands cupping his jaw, that Mycroft could only see a flash of Greg’s golden light shining and turning crimson.

Greg lightly sunk his teeth into Mycroft’s neck then, bringing him back to reality. Being kissed by him still made Mycroft spin, but tonight he needed more. He had the inkling he was reaching a crossroads in figuring out what was happening, but right then all he cared about was melting more and more until Greg decided to have him. 

Mycroft laboriously placed his hands on Greg’s hips to stop him and get a hold of his arms. “Bedroom?”, he managed to get out. He knew he sounded as dizzy as he felt. 

Once his legs had made contact with the bed as Greg walked him to it, he laid down, pulling Greg with him. Mycroft felt the complete opposite of what he had experienced the night they had kissed by the fireplace. Instead of his brain kicking in, it absolutely disconnected. All he could focus on were abstract thoughts and physical sensations, like the feeling of Greg’s fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt, the cold from the wet trail of kisses he was leaving in Mycroft’s clavicle, or the way Greg’s weight was grounding him in place, pressing his erection to his leg. 

Greg’s sounds were going to be branded into his mind forever - the way he softly puffed out air in Mycroft’s neck as Mycroft carded his hands through his silver hair, the breathy moans as Mycroft dragged his nails on the dimples of his back, the grunt he let out as he finally hooked his fingers and tugged Mycroft’s pants down.

On principle, Mycroft did not believe in spells, but he would say that they were true at that moment, when he couldn’t tell how much time had passed between Greg undressing him and his hands snaking between his thighs now. He was hexed by his mouth, his body, and his voice that only seemed to be able to repeat his name, over and over against his numb lips.

“I’ve missed this, God, I’ve missed this, one week is far too long,” Greg said, with short, quick breaths.

Mycroft had to close his eyes to avoid being blinded by Greg’s light and to only focus on the friction between them. Greg shifted, and he heard the sound of a lid opening, Greg nudging him to part his legs more. His body seemed to be responding to every tug and pull, clearly used to being coaxed by Greg. He was getting used to every sensation, the slippery feeling of Greg breaching him, the weight of Greg’s cock in his hands, the sting of a mark Greg had sucked beneath his ear. 

When he gazed at him, all he could see were Greg’s eyes, the way his hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, how swollen his lips looked. It was physical evidence that this was happening, that no-one else existed at that moment but them. 

Being torn apart by Greg’s fingers had felt like heaven -now, as the head of his cock pushed into him, Mycroft realised he was sent back to purgatory. He was suspended somewhere where time and space didn’t matter, where all he had to do was repent and give in underneath Greg.

It would have been easy to miss Greg’s “I love you”s in between his “fuck”, “yes” and “oh God”s. But there it was. Just as he was hitting Mycroft’s prostate over and over, the words kept repeating on his lips. Mycroft kissed him to silence the phrase but also to muffled his own begging as he came in Greg’s hands. His thrusts changed rhythm and, once free from Mycroft’s lips, he sobbed those words again as he spilled into him. 

—

Mycroft looked at Greg just like he had done the first morning he had woken up next to him. That might have been one of his new favourite states, simply laying there, Greg on his side, an arm around him. He was not looking to decipher anything right then, only to savor each second of this moment. 

Now that he couldn’t deny the love that he had for Greg, he felt terrified of losing him. As if reading his mind, Greg tightened the grip he had around him and pulled him towards his body, a cloud of golden light surrounding them. He mumbled “M’croft,” and snuggled against his chest. 

But now that he was coming back from his daze, Mycroft couldn’t help his mind. If he only had a couple of more days or hours of this, he needed to at least understand why and then perhaps … he could work around it. Suspension of disbelief was not easy for him, but he was willing to get used to a weird presence staring at him or the people he loved emitting light if it meant he could have this just a little bit more. Maybe forever. But it was imperative that he discovered what had led him there in the first place. 

He thought of what Anthea had said, about retracing his steps. In a week full of inexplicable events, it was really hard to focus on the odd one out. Suddenly, something stood out. 

“Greg…” he gently nudged him. “Greg… Gregory, wake up.”

“Myc, no, too much cake. You’re dating an old man, remember that,” he mumbled. 

“Oh, hush you,” Mycroft cut him off. He carded his fingers through the tussled grey hair. “I just want to ask you something,” he said.

“M’kay…” Greg was still more asleep than awake, and Mycroft knew it was a great opportunity to get an honest answer out of him. He felt bad using those techniques on Greg, but he snored and mumbled “ask ‘e damn question, love.”

“Last Tuesday, when I run into you-”

“Mm-hmmm,” Greg smiled in his sleep. “You looked nice.”

“Yes, uhh, okay.” Mycroft hesitated. “Were you surprised to find me there?”

“I learned not to be surprised by you showing up to my crime scenes years and years ago, darlin’.”

“But there was no reason for me to be there,” Mycroft insisted. “Wasn’t it?”

“Traffic jam, you said som’ting about that,” Greg slurred. He scooped Mycroft closer, rolling to his back and taking Mycroft with him. “I was surprised by the fact that you decided to just walk there, though. I missed how sexy you look stepping outside a car.”

Mycroft did remember walking through a small street, almost empty. Most of the recollection was still hazy. It was easy to feel in a sort of fog when he was laying with his head on Greg’s chest, all his senses clouded by it. He was in the midst of his faint golden light, and it was lulling Mycroft into a soft sleep. 

Something in the back of his mind, though, told him he was staring at the explanation for this whole ordeal right in the face and failing to see it.


	6. Taken by the sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are nearing the end.... actually, after this we are revisiting Mycroft in the epilogue and this story will come to its conclusion. I'm so immensely grateful to everyone that helped me along the way with this fun project. Special thanks to Johanna who was an amazing beta for this chapter!

Mycroft woke up, rolling onto his side as he felt every joint in his back slowly crack. He stretched his arms across the bed, finding it empty. Rubbing his eyes, he went over his words from the night before-- he still found them insufficient and was certain he needed to apologise more. Although he had been understanding, Greg didn’t deserve the last few days of being constantly subjected to his fears. But waking up alone didn’t scare Mycroft now. He knew Greg would stand by him. 

He wished he could get his memories back regarding him, just as had happened with Anthea and Rosie. He knew Greg was a key element in what was happening -- it felt as if it had started with him, and it would end there as well. Mycroft never dwelled too much on the future, believing the notion of thinking ahead would cloud his decision-making ability and judgment. Besides, he knew developments could change in a single moment, and although he always planned for all circumstances, the prospects never excited him. Muddling that with sentiment meant he couldn’t be on top of his game and function at his best for others. And yet when he had had to make choices in the past regarding Sherlock, feelings were never put aside. If anything, they were the driving force behind his decisions, as much as he had tried to keep a steady head. Trusting Greg had seemed not only like the most logical choice but a matter-of-fact one. He had blindly confided in him, trusting him with his brother, putting a piece of his heart in his hands. He wanted to take the leap and trust him with his own heart as well -- not a safe gamble, but a courageous one.

“Morning, love,” Greg said as he came closer to the bed. Besides the distracting view of him stepping into his joggers, water still dripping from his hair, he was a vision of domestic bliss and calm. He kissed Mycroft and set to look for a t-shirt. 

Mycroft stared at him as he crouched down and carelessly rummaged through the drawers, slowly humming a song. He wondered if Greg could tell that for Mycroft he still remained a mirage, a sight he had to focus on for fear he might disappear. He remembered the night before and wondered if Greg could feel any difference, if he could notice Mycroft pouring so much of himself into their lovemaking, trying to tell him what he felt through his actions. He thought that had sufficed in the heat of passion, but right now it wouldn’t do, he needed to tell him what Greg deserved to hear. 

“Everything alright?” he asked

“More than.” Mycroft was glad he could blame the catch in his voice on being recently woken up. It was impossible not to stumble over his words when Greg was smiling affably at him, lips crooked like they did when he was amused. Mycroft felt as though they weren’t alone in the room, but he only had eyes for Greg. A whiff of sweet lilacs swirled through the air. 

“I am very happy, more than I ever hoped I could be,” he started and took a deep breath. “I love you,” he said, and the words didn’t feel foreign in his mouth. He might have uttered them before in dreams, and the moment felt precisely like that. No, he told himself. It felt real, not like he was floating above the scene, looking down at Greg and himself. 

All he could focus on was Greg and the earnest affection in his eyes. God, his eyes - had they always shined like this before? Mycroft had always tried to avoid staring at him for too long, weary he might be giving away his feelings. He knew now that he could get lost in Greg’s long lashes and deep brown eyes without any remorse.

He could smell Greg’s shampoo mixed with the scent of flowers, could feel the heat from his body near him. Saying those words didn’t bring back the recollections of them together, but Mycroft felt that if he had to build a new life, starting with this memory, he was ready to do so. 

“I love you too, darlin’,” Greg whispered and kissed him. “You know that, don’t you?” he asked as he leaned back to trace Mycroft’s cheeks with his fingers. 

And that was the part Mycroft still had a hard time wrapping his mind around -- Greg loving him, believing he felt with the same intensity as he did, willing to give himself completely as Mycroft was.

He chose to kiss Greg back as a way of telling him “ _I can’t let myself believe this, but I want to._ ”

It was Saturday, and they could spend all day together in bed if they wanted to, Greg informed him. Mycroft didn’t know if this was how their mornings usually went, but he wasn’t ready to face the outside just yet. He wanted to cling to this for as long as he could. For once, the house felt truly like a fortress, protecting them and keeping them safe together. It seemed surreal to believe he had spent his mornings before going over world news and making work calls. 

“Stay with me a while longer?” he asked Greg, who was barely moving from on top of him. He got the biggest smile in return.

Greg probably didn’t notice the energy around them, pulling them closer like static buzzing around the two of them, bounding them in place. Mycroft basked in it, but late in the morning, his brain kicked in again, like a clock ticking inside of him. 

When he made his way downstairs to get some tea and a quick snack, he found his appointment book open on the kitchen counter. He knew for sure he hadn’t even taken it out of his briefcase the day before. It was pulsing with light-- softer, and then brighter, a deep blue spreading through all the room.

“Call Sherlock”, the new writing said, in the same neat penmanship Mycroft was growing accustomed to seeing. 

A week ago, he wouldn’t have even entertained the idea of getting in touch with his brother if it wasn’t for a particular reason that needed his assistance. Granted, a week ago, he would have also freaked out after finding self-appearing notes.

He thought of Greg upstairs, of his niece counting on him, of the email Anthea had sent him from the office that morning, signing off with a friendly “Fort successfully held, boss. Take care.” He recognized the pang of dread taking over him. Fear was the true constraint, and right now he needed to get into action. He couldn’t lose what he had gained, and he refused to play a passive part in his fate anymore. And maybe, just maybe, Sherlock could help.

—

“I still don’t understand what we are doing here,” his brother said. It was nearly noon, and everyone around them was sporting their biggest and warmest jackets over their casual wear. Mycroft was wearing his suit with a tweed blazer, and Sherlock had merely added a cashmere sweater underneath his coat and tailored clothes. “ _Weekend attire, the Holmes way_ ”, Mycroft thought with mirth. 

“I told you one of my agents informed me a delivery from Michael Reiss could be expected around this time,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock looked at him with skepticism, and it almost made Mycroft feel guilty about lying to him. And Greg. He had told both of them a new development had occurred in the counterfeit case Sherlock was investigating. 

“Go, have your pirate adventures,” Greg had said as he was helping him button his blazer. 

“Pirate?” 

“You’re looking into intercepting a bounty, am I correct?” Greg had smirked, proud of his joke. “As an officer of the law, I’ll pretend I haven’t heard anything this morning. It’s Dimmock’s case, after all, let the sucker deal with it.” 

The desire to stay safe and rooted in place with Greg had almost betrayed Mycroft, but his instincts told him to go along with the plan. Instincts or something else that was pushing him out the door. 

Greg had promised to wait for him with dinner ready and kissed him goodbye, and Mycroft felt like he was already betraying his trust.

“I don’t see how they are going to risk a move like this in the middle of the city, but I guess something can be said about hiding in plain sight, right under the nose of Scotland Yard’s best,” Sherlock had huffed, tilting his head towards the Met building in the distance. 

Mycroft scolded him on behalf of Greg, and Sherlock hid his smile while adjusting his scarf. 

Mycroft kept looking around, but not because he was expecting a drug delivery disguised as fake bags cargo to go down. Maybe they were in luck, and that could happen as well. He had actually led Sherlock to the empty street near Whitehall for different reasons. He remembered walking there, and Greg also recalled their meeting at that place a few days ago. It seemed like the only place to unlock what was happening, and he was counting on Sherlock picking up on anything strange that could be flying over Mycroft’s own head. 

His brother leaned against a wall, the image of impatience as he twirled his ring around his finger.

“How was Rosamund this morning?” Mycroft asked to make time pass, and because he was genuinely curious about how John and Sherlock had managed to make her fall asleep after all the sugar from the cake and the candy Greg had sneaked to her.

“Tell Lestrade I’m going to forward the dentist bill to him if he keeps this up,” Sherlock pointed out.

Mycroft laughed and rubbed his gloved hands together. “Just be happy she doesn’t have our genes when it comes to cavities,” he said.

Sherlock’s smile slightly faded, and Mycroft bit his tongue. He didn’t know if reminding Sherlock that Rosie didn’t have his blood had been the best choice. He didn’t doubt his brother’s love, in the same way he didn’t doubt his affection for her. Blood bonds were complicated, Mycroft had found a long time ago, and usually what defined family had more to do with devotion and loyalty.

He was bound to Sherlock in both senses. There was no way of escaping it.

Sherlock closed his eyes and pinched his brow. 

“It took me two hours of reading for her to finally fall asleep,” he said. Then, after a short silence, “Was it also such a pain to do so when I was her age?” he asked. 

Mycroft felt the air knocked out of him. It was extremely rare for Sherlock to acknowledge anything regarding their childhood together, at least in a good light. Even when Mycroft himself thought of the moments they had spent as children, the intensity of their exchanges as adults clouded the memories. But it was true that when their parents used to attend their customary dinners and events in the city, neither Sherlock nor he had favored nannies. They usually lasted a week at maximum. Mycroft had to be the one to sit down and read various stories to Sherlock until he fell asleep. Once, when he was grown up and on the other side of the phone, Mycroft had spent three hours reading from a Captain Cook biography he had at hand so Sherlock could be distracted out of danger. Leaving the circumstances aside, it had been nice to indulge in the old habit they used to share. 

“I can appreciate all that now and… “ Sherlock seemed to struggle to get the words out and didn’t meet Mycroft’s eyes. He tightened his coat around himself and continued speaking. “I’ve said that you did what you could, but it was more than that. From the start, it was always more than you should have done. I’m slowly seeing it now.”

Sherlock’s ever-present scarf was Mycroft’s favorite item of his. Not only because he had gifted it, many years ago when he had gotten his brother settled in London, but because it fit Sherlock perfectly. Mycroft had always thought it was the fact that it brought up the blue in his eyes, but now he realised it was because it matched his light perfectly. Right then it was as intense and bright as it had ever shone, and Mycroft saw it surround Sherlock and illuminate the whole street. 

The recollection of the memories involving Sherlock was powerful, and Mycroft was glad that the wall behind him supported him. It was harder to focus on any of the images flashing before his eyes than it had been with Anthea or Rosie. One memory overlapped with the other and Mycroft experienced joy, rage, sadness, and fear all at once. As the light continued to take over him, he could see his brother’s wedding. Mycroft was now by his side and not sitting among the other attendees, he could then hear laughter as they shared a cigarette behind the bushes of their parent’s home, and witnessed what seemed like a dozen dinners at his apartment, Greg and John with them. In every one of the memories, Sherlock stared at him and Mycroft understood what he was saying - “ _I’m sorry”, “I’m here”, “Thank you_ ”. It would have been hard to explain to anyone but them, but they had rarely needed words to communicate. 

Sherlock’s light slowly dimmed, but he must have read the confusion on Mycroft’s face because he was looking at him with his lips pursed in concern. Mycroft cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice from cracking as he continued the conversation, the rush of the feelings still occupying his mind.

“I could have done with a change from all the boat stuff, to be honest,” he said.

Sherlock pressed his lips together and nodded. “I feel the same way about witches now, trust me.”

“A new niche interest of hers?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock sighed. “I was expecting it to go away like the unicorns and the singing pig, but it’s been like this for weeks now.”

Mycroft remembered how insistent Sherlock had been about finding a way to get that cartoon off television. He had even asked Mycroft to use any connections he had to ban it. 

“And stars, thanks to you, I guess,” he added.

Mycroft grinned with satisfaction and pride.

“Well, we could all use a little magic,” Mycroft said, pointedly looking away. He was not sure how much of his reaction Sherlock could gauge from his shifting. 

“You’d be surprised at how much magic is around, according to the books.”

“You got her more books?” Mycroft asked.

“No, but I did some research. Many people claim London is a hot spot for covens and apparitions.” 

Mycroft could not tell if Sherlock was being serious or not, but it seemed like his brother was watching him with focus, measuring his response. 

Mycroft’s first instinct was to laugh at what Sherlock was saying, but he reckoned that would be awfully hypocritical of him. 

“What do you see there?” he asked instead, pointing at the stairs of an old shop.

Sherlock smirked at him. “This is why you have to wear your glasses, brother,” he said. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “What do you really see there?”

Sherlock changed his stance, turning on his side slightly. 

“Nothing,” he said after a moment.

He waited and shifted so that he was staring at Mycroft again. 

“Are we under attack or are you losing your mind?” he asked.

“I might as well be…” Mycroft mumbled. He was looking for the right way to phrase it, because Sherlock shared his views of the world. What would he make of Mycroft telling him he was sensing apparitions and seeing colorful lights around people? Mycroft was trying to not scare him, but he was his last and most trusted resort in helping him make some sense of it.

“I feel like everything changed, at some point. Everyone did, and I can’t wrap my mind around it.” He knew he sounded desperate, but perhaps that would show his brother how serious he was being. 

Sherlock didn’t laugh at him, or mock him, or look at him like he had gone crazy. Instead, he bit his lips and stared at the floor. 

“It’s the curse of the Holmes, I’m afraid. We are never going to adapt to change very well.” He sounded wounded, like he had struggled with that himself as well.

“Even change for good?” Mycroft asked. 

“Especially that.”

In the silence, Mycroft felt as if he was cornered. How could he manage this without a single answer?

“What do you suggest we do about it?” he asked.

Sherlock put on his best pretend-I’m-thinking face.

“Blame our parents?” he said and chuckled alongside Mycroft. Not so long ago he would have faulted Mycroft, without a hint of humor. It felt good to deflect the burden.

“Okay, that works,” he said as the laughter died down. 

“What is it that changed?” Sherlock asked him, more serious now, in the voice he used when he wanted to analyze something.

“Everything…” Mycroft said. “Everyone,” he clarified.

“I’ve been watching you, brother,” Sherlock said. “It’s not that everyone changed, but that you finally did too.”

“Well, thank you, that’s a relief,” Mycroft replied with sarcasm.

“I think the two of us have a hard time believing people can care about us,” Sherlock said faintly. “I don’t doubt you are capable of caring for others, at least I don’t anymore,” he carried on. “But--“

“I thought you had me pinned down as distant.”

Sherlock apparently chose to overlook Mycroft’s interruption.

“Can you see that people care about you in return? Can you actually let them?”

“ _Who loves you, Mycroft Holmes?_ ” Mycroft heard, and instantly turned his head.

“There! There, tell me you see her!” Mycroft pointed. 

Sitting on the same stairs, there was the woman that Mycroft had found last Tuesday. He remembered the insistence in her voice. Her blonde fringe covered most of her dark brown eyes, and her velvet black dress draped over the steps. She smiled slyly at him before disappearing again. 

“Mycroft, Mycroft, look at me…” he heard from a distance. “Maybe you are out of your mind after all,” it echoed around him. “Mycroft, can you hear me?” Sherlock kept repeating. He had him by the shoulders, and Mycroft felt that if he let go, his legs would give in. 

“What happened?” Sherlock asked. 

“I…” Mycroft couldn’t get any words out, as the street and the buildings around them kept spinning. 

“I need to leave,” he said, trying to walk. 

“No, not like this, you don’t,” Sherlock said. 

“Sherlock, no-one from the Reiss clan is coming,” he pointed out impatiently. 

“Yes, I figured that out.”

“I have to go home,” Mycroft repeated, still dizzy, his vision going blurry. Sherlock’s words started to sound far away again, and he couldn’t make out what he was saying.

“I need… I need to go to… Greg,” he managed to say.

Everything went black, even though Mycroft could see lights in the corner of his eyes, among the darkness. He felt two delicate hands wrapped in fabric holding him down, long hair brushing against his temple and the smell of lilacs filling the air. 

—

It was hard to open his eyes, as though they were stuck together. Mycroft felt as if he had run for days, exhaustion washing over him. Slowly he turned, finding Greg reading next to him, only his nightstand lamp turned on. It hurt Mycroft’s eyes, and he squinted and placed a hand on his forehead. 

“Good night, love,” Greg said, putting his book aside. His face morphed into a worried frown. 

“Your phone rung a lot. You got your brother and Anthea pretty worried there,” he added.

Mycroft stretched out his hand to find his mobile. The glitter stuck to his hands, but Greg clearly didn’t notice. Sherlock and Anthea… of course, the people that cared about him. It was hard to figure out the machinations of whatever he was under, but he reasoned technology probably had a way to translate lights into a tangible sign. Each call and text had produced the shining specks. Even if he was the only one who saw it, he wiped his hand on his shirt, covering it with the iridescent dust. 

“What happened?” he asked, sitting up. Greg moved against the pillows so that Mycroft could lean against him, and he put his arm around Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“Sherlock reckons you fainted, and he called Anthea when he couldn’t wake you up.” Greg sounded annoyed about it. “Not like you have a partner who gets worried about you, you know…”

“I told him Anthea was at the office this morning; he probably figured she’d get there sooner.”

“Yes, I guess,” Greg said. “He called me once she got to you and assured him you had discussed your health checks with her and that there was nothing to be worried about. He sounded pretty scared, it was like getting the Holmes call but the roles were reversed.”

Mycroft closed his eyes because he felt a headache coming, and that notion aggravated the pain a bit. He took a deep breath, but some of the dizziness remained.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Greg went quiet. “Is there anything I should know?” he asked.

“Anthea is right, everything is fine. Must have been exhaustion.” Mycroft didn’t know why he kept lying to Greg. But now that he sort of understood the truth, it didn’t mean it was any easier to explain. Still, knowing he was under some kind of spell meant it could be reversed. He was sure his niece would know perfectly how to go about it. He smiled at the idea, and Greg’s expression relaxed as well. 

But once it was done and gone, what would remain? Would it all be taken away from him?

Greg sighed. “I’m here. You can tell me if anything is wrong, remember?” He kissed his forehead and repeated the words he had said before. “Let me take care of you. I’m going to spend the rest of my days trying if I need to.”

And he said so with such conviction, like he was stating a fact, the kind of cold hard truths Mycroft was used to dealing with, the ones that couldn’t be contradicted, those which were immovable and undeniable. 

Being in Greg’s arms meant Mycroft felt the warmth and electricity of his light before he saw it shine fiercely, but soon enough, he had to hide his face in Greg’s neck to keep the golden luminosity away. He felt his chest expand, felt like sobbing and laughing all at once. It was a thousand emotions colliding with each other and suddenly, serenity. 

He saw Greg putting his hand over his as they shared a drink in his club, saw Greg leaning against his car waiting with his arms crossed as Mycroft left the office, saw him moving across lines of people to get to him when Mycroft was carried to an ambulance. He saw Greg, much younger, sitting next to him in a hospital waiting room and asking him how he was doing and how he could help. He saw him later, grey hair and tired posture, visiting him when they all thought Sherlock was dead, his eyes red and puffy but offering a hand. 

They were not new memories, as they had been with the others, but old moments seen in a new light. Mycroft realised Greg had not lied-- he had cared from the start. And Mycroft believed him now, could not deny it. 

“You love me,” he said, looking up at Greg, unable to keep his eyes from going a little damp. He had said “I love you” to Greg that morning, but this shook him even more. He had meant both things, but this, for some reason, seemed like the epiphany. 

Greg took his face in his hands, wiping away a few tears that had already spilled. 

“Of course I do,” he said tenderly, with all the patience in the world. “And I’m going to tell you that until you get tired of hearing so.”

Mycroft tried to breathe, but the air got caught in his throat. He didn’t know what would happen next, but he allowed himself to hope. Hope and believe in others.

“I don’t think I will ever get enough of it,” he smiled.

—

Mycroft usually enjoyed the early mornings. The moment when the city was quiet and everyone was asleep. It usually felt like the world had come to a halt, and the melancholy hurt less. His mind worked better when the sun was just rising and he could look ahead at the day. 

When he woke up, he wanted nothing more than to stop the sunrise for once and get some extra hours of the night. He wished for the stars that he and his niece adored so much to keep shining still. He was afraid to face the new day. He didn’t dare look beside him, for fear it would all be gone. Knowledge had always been the end goal, the finish line. He craved awareness of what was happening at all moments of his life, and while he couldn’t make sense of the explanation he had come to, he was willing to leave questions unanswered. More than telling the world he had a beating heart, it was about how it beat for those he loved, and how they reciprocated.

He turned on his side, keeping his eyes closed, and moved the covers back slowly.

“Where are you going?” came a muffled voice.

Greg. Still here. 

“Just to get a glass of water, go back to sleep,” Mycroft told him. 

He felt Greg sit up and rest a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re still weak from yesterday,” he mumbled, his voice sleepy, “let me fetch it for you.” He placed a kiss on Mycroft’s back as he stumbled off the bed. 

Mycroft watched him go through the door, trying to make out his shape in the faint morning light. He got up after, dragging his feet across the floor, and drew the curtains a bit. It was hard to say if the day had already started or the night was refusing to let go. He kept his eyes fixed on the front of the house, trying to catch a glimpse of something or someone. It should have calmed him, not finding anything out of the ordinary, but he wouldn’t be surprised to see it come back. For now, the sun was rising, and he seemed to have been given the gift of staying there. 

A pair of arms came around his waist, and Greg rested his chin on his shoulders. “It’s Sunday, Myc,” he said. “Don’t rush anywhere.”

And there was no place Mycroft would rather be. He turned and kissed Greg briefly, who hugged him close. There was no light coming off him, and yet Mycroft knew. He knew who loved him.


End file.
